


Sheelal

by Inonibird



Series: Sahuldeem [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Clone Wars (2003) - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, F/M, Huk, Kaleesh (Star Wars), Planet Kalee (Star Wars), Romance, Trauma, Violence, Yam'rii
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 39,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28777434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inonibird/pseuds/Inonibird
Summary: Qymaen jai Sheelal, beloved Chieftain of Irikuum, greatest rifleman of the Ausez Steppes, has had strange dreams before. He dreamt of the Huk invasion. He dreamt of his father’s death. But this dream feels different. It feels warm. It feels hopeful.And he will make this dream his reality.(Part Two of Sahuldeem, a six-part exploration of Grievous' backstory)
Relationships: Grievous | Qymaen jai Sheelal/Ronderu lij Kummar
Series: Sahuldeem [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2086662
Comments: 32
Kudos: 67





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is part two and a direct continuation of the Sahuldeem series, so please start with part one for the full story!
> 
> (I decided to split up all six parts of Sahuldeem into separate works A. to delineate the significant "eras" of Qymaen's life and B. to help streamline tagging. Just felt like it would be a bit much to try and post the entire saga as a single work. Sorry if this was an inconvenient choice!)
> 
> The plan is one chapter per week, if I can maintain discipline! ;)

48 BBY

Year Fourteen of Yam’rii Occupation, 

known to Kaleesh as the Huk War

  
  


A small herd of juleem threaded their way through the grass on spindle-shanked legs, so delicate and diminutive that their cloven hooves barely sank in the mud of the watering hole. Lifting long necks, they cast their wide eyes left and right, ahead and behind, on the alert for predators as they purposefully stepped into an exposed position. But, of course, it couldn’t be helped. All animals needed water, and the Ausez Steppes granted no favors with its arid heat and parched, shallow streams that more resembled puddles in the driest of months.

Here, at least, the ground held water, unlike the desert lands. Here, there were trees, desperate things that drove powerful roots deep into the earth and grew aboveground at urgent, gnarled angles, fingers grasping up at the sky for the rains that rarely fell. Foliage cradled branches like a net, thick enough to cast solid shadows below the trees, granting shelter from the sun.

The juleem did not look up into the trees.

With a BANG, a juleem fell in the mud. The rest scattered, springing from the watering hole and into the seeming safety of the tall grass, quick, brown blurs of motion. Another shot rang out, and one of the brown flashes froze mid-leap, limbs splayed, before it collapsed dead in the grass. The rest of the herd bounced away, spared for this hunt.

A well-built Kaleesh in hunting leathers dangled from the branches of a tree, lowering himself with his strong arms to lessen the rest of his fall. Landing, he straightened and removed his kakmusme, revealing his heavy brow set in a rather pleased expression.

“Nice shot on that second one, Qy,” said Zaebar.

He was shortly joined by a more slender Kaleesh who dropped from another tree, the impact bringing him to a crouch before he, too, drew himself up to his full, appreciable height and swung his slugthrower behind his back. Unlike Zaebar, he preferred to wear limb wrappings beneath his leathers, and though it was unnecessary for hunting, his distinctive dulhlava denoted his authority to any other Kaleesh outside of Irikuum they might stumble across. Pulling off his mumuu bonemask revealed a slim, angular face, still youthful at seventeen years, but more sharp and defined than it was in childhood.

Qymaen gazed down at his handiwork, even more pleased than Zaebar, and shrugged. “Well, I noticed it was favoring one of its legs. Thought that might slow it down. Figured I had a shot at it, anyway.”

Zaebar peered at his younger cousin. Was he trying to be modest, or showing off? Either way, he swallowed his jealousy. “I probably wouldn’t have even hit them standing still, so...yeah. Well done.” He waded his way through the grass to their kills. “I’ll grab the big one. You get the little one.”

They both collected their respective juleem and slung them over their shoulders, Zaebar handling the weight with ease, Qymaen putting in clear effort. Zaebar was not quite the mass of muscles his father had been, but he still stood nearly double Qymaen’s width. His brawn remained an advantage Zaebar relished, and it brought him no end of gratification to remind Qymaen of this fact whenever it came up.

“You sure you don’t want me to carry that?” he asked with a smirk, nodding at Qymaen’s juleem. “Wouldn’t be any trouble.”

“I’ve got it,” huffed Qymaen.

“How much do you think that thing weighs? A lot more than your slugthrower, anyway, huh?”

“You can’t—oh, come on. You use _Lig swords_. Not exactly heavy lifting.”

Zaebar preened a little. Lig combat represented the other rare advantage he held over his cousin. “That’s not all I use. Have you ever punched a Huk in the head?”

“No. Of course not.”

“It’s very satisfying.”

“I slug them in the head,” said Qymaen in a flat voice. “From a kilometer away. _Also_ satisfying.”

“Trust me,” sniggered Zaebar, “it’s not the same. I’d say you should try it sometime, but I worry you’d break your little hand.”

“I’ll break _your_ hand.”

“I’d love to see you try.”

They continued to snipe at one another, for Qymaen in a much less lethal manner than his usual practice, until they reached the spot where they had left their kuunsi-drawn wagon, far enough from the hunting grounds so as not to disturb their quarry. They loaded their catch into the wooden cart and began leading the kuunsi back toward Irikuum, plodding alongside on foot.

“I really should try Lig again,” Qymaen muttered after they’d been walking for some time.

Zaebar cast a skeptical glance to the side. “Already told you: you’re quick and you move well, but until you build up your strength and stamina, you’re never going to be as good at Lig combat as you are at shooting.”

“I don’t need to be _as good_. Just good enough to be—good.”

“Well,” said Zaebar, “you aren’t good.”

“Thanks.”

“And I’m not going to try and teach you again unless you work on your core strength. It’s not worth the trouble.”

“Did it ever occur to you that you’re a terrible teacher?” Qymaen felt exceedingly petty and immature even as he said it.

But Zaebar took it in stride. He wasn’t eager to offer Qymaen the opportunity to excel at yet another skill and outweigh what precious pride he’d scrounged for himself. “Hard to be a good teacher when the student is so weak and skinny. Anyway, good luck finding a better swordsman out here.”

Soon, the valley opened below them, the distant mudbrick edifices of Irikuum standing pale against the ramble of grass and scrubland. A rush of wind swept desert dust in its wake, leaving both young men coughing. Despite the particles filling his sinuses—and, since he was fool enough to open his mouth as he coughed and spat into the wind, gritting between his teeth—Qymaen enjoyed the smell. He preferred it to the wet stink of the riverbeds or the strange, salty spray of Shrupak. The scent of brittle grasses, brambles and flowering zigmash, mingled with the scorched sands of the desert lands that stretched beyond the northwest hill of the valley, meant he was home. However far he traveled, whether the few short kilometers to the hunting grounds or the days-long journeys to neighboring villages to befriend their chieftains and consolidate their forces, he savored his return to that dusty smell.

Today, their arrival in Irikuum was disrupted by a small commotion at the village gate. “Looks like trouble,” Zaebar observed, suspicion weighing on his brow, as a trio of villagers scrambled through the archway and approached them, waving frantic arms over their heads.

“I’d never have guessed,” said Qymaen dryly. “I don’t see any ships. It’s not the Huk.” Still relatively calm, he called out to the villagers. “What’s going on?”

“Chieftain Sheelal!” exclaimed one. “Thank the ancestors you’ve returned. The Chieftain of Urukishnugal has come to Irikuum—he’s with the Malga now, but he—he wants to meet with you.”

Qymaen’s stomach lurched, and he couldn’t stop his jaw from dropping open in astonishment. “ _Urukishnugal?_ He came all the way here from…” His mind was already racing ahead of his mouth, and he trailed off as he tried to imagine just how long it took to travel the Great Trade Road from Urukishnugal to Irikuum. Weeks? Over a month; perhaps two. Their chieftain had truly resigned himself to _months_ away from his city and his people—to see _him?_ No. Surely not. Surely he had other business along the trade road. Nerves soothed by his assessment, Qymaen turned to Zaebar, indicating the cart. “Can you take care of this?”

“Sure thing, Qy,” said Zaebar, slightly resentful and making sure Qymaen knew this by continuing to address him so informally in front of the other villagers. “I can do that.”

Qymaen shot him a final, exasperated glare over his shoulder as he followed the villagers through the gate and hurried to the Malga’s hut. Outside the hut and crowded around the nearest trough, he spotted the chieftain’s entourage: a gaggle of wary and sun-weary warriors sporting the regalia, colors and sigils of the great city, watering their kuunsi and looking miserable in clothing and armor unsuited to the local clime. Qymaen had heard Urukishnugal was warm and wet, but its people knew more cloudy days than the Ausez Steppes, and didn’t grow up seeking ways to shield themselves from an unmerciful sun. He offered a sympathetic smile and a nod as he passed; they eyed him doubtfully.

A voice bade him enter when he knocked on the door, so he let himself inside the Malga’s hut. Malga Shapra and the Chieftain of Urukishnugal were seated on cushions by the central hearth, which, despite the hour, was lit, probably for the sake of a cordial cup of tea. The small hole in the roof vented smoke from the room, but did little to alleviate the building heat—a heat that did not bother Qymaen as much as it should have, particularly when he realized he’d forgotten to grab his clan cloak and neglected to put his mask back on. Had he left his kakmusme in the stupid wagon? Too late to do anything about that now. _Idiot_ , he told himself for good measure. At least the others had already unmasked in anticipation of their tea.

Both the Malga and the foreign chieftain climbed to their feet when Qymaen entered, the latter moving to greet him. The Chieftain of Urukishnugal was middle-aged and thick-tusked, built like a mumuu, with silver at his temples. His regalia befit the leader of a city as large and progressive as Urukishnugal, elaborate and intricate against Qymaen’s plain, earth-toned hunting leathers and wrappings. One of his eyebrows quirked as he scanned the young man before him. “Chieftain Sheelal? I am Urash sun Abvuul, Chieftain of Urukishnugal.”

Qymaen already didn’t care for the man’s tone, nor his regard. He suspected he knew the other chieftain’s misgivings, but decided not to speak of it unless it couldn’t be avoided. He stepped up and clasped Chieftain Abvuul’s arm in a warrior salute, which was thankfully reciprocated. “Qymaen jai Sheelal. I welcome you, Chieftain Abvuul. What brings you all the way out to Irikuum?”

Malga Shapra cleared his throat, gesturing to the cushions. “Chieftain Abvuul was telling me how he had heard of your counter-raids against the nearby Huk colonies.”

Qymaen sat across from Abvuul, curious. “You know of me?”

“Stories, yes. I wasn’t sure if I believed them, if I’m honest,” said Chieftain Abvuul, and again his tone, never mind his words, set Qymaen tensing defensively. “And now that I have met you, I must admit—I was expecting someone with your reputation to be a little…”

And there it was. The unspoken word hung in the air, deliberate, derisive and belittling. Qymaen tried not to let it pierce him and deflate his sense of worth. He knew who he was—long-named, versed in the way of the hunt, battle-seasoned and sharp of tusk—and yet Abvuul, like a number of chieftains before him, could not see that. They saw only a gawky youngling. Qymaen realized he had clenched his fists and jaw, and forced himself to relax before he filled the purposeful silence. “I assure you, the stories are true.”

“A year ago you destroyed the foundations of a Yam’rii settlement before it could be fully established?”

Qymaen met Abvuul’s eyes. “I found that was the best time to attack it, yes.”

Malga Shapra, more than aware of the mounting tension, interjected on his young chieftain’s behalf. “Chieftain Sheelal has built a good rapport with our neighboring villages. He has successfully rallied and led a sizable kamen, large enough to be considered a horde.”

“For the chieftain of such a small village, and for one so—inexperienced—I suppose that is impressive,” said Abvuul with a condescending tilt of his head. “However, Chieftain Sheelal, I am not here for you. I am here for this alleged horde.”

Genuinely caught off guard, Qymaen blinked, then narrowed his eyes. “I’m sorry? What exactly are you asking?”

“Now, I’m sure you are a proud warrior,” began Chieftain Abvuul with a withering, unfriendly smile, “but you understand that when Urukishnugal requires something, it will be given. I am building the largest army that Kalee has ever seen, and I need warriors to people it.” He leaned in, voice and eyes gripped with sudden intensity. “Let me be clear: I do not need more commanders. I need _soldiers_. If yours are as effective as I hear, they will serve me well. When I have my army, I will ride against the primary Yam’rii colony and drive them off this planet once and for all.” Finished, and with the confidence of someone quite used to getting whatever he pleased, he sat back, satisfied. “So, then. Assemble your horde, Chieftain Sheelal. Call them here, and they can ride with me on the trade road.”

Qymaen snorted, loudly. “Is this a joke?”

After a moment of utter shock, Abvuul began to bristle. “What did you say?”

“ _Qymaen_ ,” the Malga implored under his breath.

But Qymaen was already on his feet, and he stood defiantly when Abvuul matched his movements and circled the hearth to stand far too close. Qymaen was above the average height for Kaleesh of the Ausez Steppes, but the river lands nourished the thriving peoples down in the southeast, and the older chieftain loomed over him, reeking of belligerent kuu-lir. Still, he didn’t falter. “You’ve heard of me? Well, I’ve heard of _you_. I had always wondered how Urukishnugal fared so well during the Huk invasion; I used to believe the stories of your brave freedom fighters, because what little boy doesn’t dream of that?” His lip curled. “Then I heard a rumor that, early on, when the Huk came to pillage your great city, you made _arrangements_ with them. A truce in exchange for trade—while the rest of us continue to be _enslaved_ and _killed_ by the millions.” He stretched his heels, bringing himself even with the scowling chieftain’s face. “So, you are going back on whatever word you gave them that you wouldn’t turn against them? What changed? Or maybe nothing changed—you were dishonorable then, and you’re dishonorable now.”

“Insolent youngling!” Chieftain Abvuul finally exploded, the spit from his snarl spattering Qymaen’s face.

Qymaen didn’t dare flinch. “And my warriors would rather serve an insolent youngling than a coward who would make deals with our enemy. They aren’t going anywhere.” Though his heart pounded, he took a step away from Abvuul, never once removing his challenging gaze, and dipped into a mocking bow. “Thank you for your visit, Chieftain Abvuul. I would not suggest you go demanding the chieftains of the nearby villages what you demanded of me; they might not be as polite about sending you away.”

No one spoke for several seconds: Qymaen because he had said what he meant to say, Malga Shapra for fear of drawing the wrath of the other chieftain, and Abvuul was too apoplectic to formulate anything more than strangled, incoherent noises of rage.

Qymaen watched the older Kaleesh seethe, and worried for a moment he might fly at him and attack him with his bare claws. After all, that was one way of obtaining the army of another chieftain, albeit usually with more pomp and more warning. But Qymaen also saw his uncertainty. Chieftain Abvuul _had_ heard the stories of his accomplishments—and he _was_ a coward.

At length, Abvuul sneered. “Our merchants may find themselves bypassing Irikuum in the future, Chieftain Sheelal. It is so terribly far off the trade road, after all.” He let his cold words sink in, then whirled on his heel with a flare of his splendid clan cloak, stalking out the door and hissing as he went, “Enjoy the consequences of your impertinent tongue, _boy_.”

Only when Chieftain Abvuul slammed the door behind him did Malga Shapra stand. He put his hand on Qymaen’s arm, which was rigid at the young chieftain’s side. “It was not wise to antagonize him, Qymaen.”

As if the Malga held true spiritual properties rather than the more symbolic role Qymaen understood he fulfilled, at his elder’s touch he felt his muscles relax, and he released the shaky breath he’d been holding. With a bitter laugh, he plopped down on his cushion, his posture sinking. “You heard him. I’m _young_. Wisdom comes with age.”

Malga Shapra moved to the window and peered outside. Chieftain Abvuul angrily mounted his kuunsi, barking orders at his warriors as they scrambled to follow his lead. “Well, your dealings with nearly every other chieftain you’ve met has gone much better than it did today. Perhaps the problem lies with him, not you.”

“ _Perhaps?_ He’s a traitor!”

“I will not disagree with that,” said Malga Shapra wryly. Then he sighed. “The fact remains that you have not made friends with him today, and now we will not be able to trade with Urukishnugal. Whatever the city’s relationship is with the Huk, they still have access to a great many goods that we do not.”

Qymaen waved a hand as if that would somehow dismiss the problem. “We can use other villages as proxies. Whoever trades with Urukishnugal, we can trade with them.”

The Malga tried not to sound too amused by the young man’s naivety. “That _will_ be at a greater cost, you know.”

Qymaen buried his face in his hands with a groan. “I didn’t become chieftain for my _mercantile expertise_. I’m a _warrior_. I didn’t ask for Abvuul the Nisubbac to come here and complicate things. I just want to kill Huk.”

“Apparently, now, so does he.” Malga Shapra studied Qymaen. “Why didn’t you lend him your horde, then? Whoever defeats the Huk and runs them off Kalee, the result is the same. They will be gone. So why?”

Qymaen lifted his face, scowling. “My kamen is loyal to _me_. Not him. How can anyone trust him? And they wouldn’t fight as well for him,” he went on, increasingly agitated. “They would end up dead under his command. A stupid waste.”

“I see. Nothing to do with pride.”

“ _No_.”

The door opened, startling both men into the concern that Abvuul had returned for violence. It was Nulahu who entered the hut, toting a basket of freshly dried clothing. She faltered at their wide-eyed staring, then offered a curious smile. “I must have just missed the excitement. That _was_ an envoy from Urukishnugal I saw leaving the village, yes? They didn’t look especially happy.”

Malga Shapra smiled at his sister, sheepish. “Hello, Nulahu. I should say not. Qymaen sent Chieftain Abvuul slinking off with his tail between his legs.”

“Well, he still took a parting shot,” mumbled Qymaen.

Nulahu deposited her basket on the ground and propped her hands on her hips. “Am I going to have to chase after him? Give him a stern talking-to?”

That stirred a faint smile from Qymaen, however briefly. “No one deserves that, not even him.” He rose to his feet, sweeping at his trousers with his hands. “I should go see if Zaebar needs help with the juleem.”

“Qymaen,” said the Malga softly. When the young man turned to face him, he offered an encouraging smile. “You did well today, as well as you could. You are a fine chieftain. Don’t let that old fool make you think otherwise.”

A twitch tugged Qymaen’s lips upward before falling again. A gracious, if not generous sentiment, but he could expect no less from the Malga. He knew his strengths and his weaknesses; he didn’t need Abvuul’s spiteful input to convince him one way or another. “I’m a better sniper than I am a chieftain.”

“You’ve killed more Huk than anyone else in the village—probably more than anyone in the Ausez Steppes,” said Nulahu. “You’ve led over a hundred warriors against their settlements. You are a leader. You’ve earned it, Qymaen.”

Qymaen said nothing to indicate he believed or agreed with this; he simply bowed and replied, “Thank you, Nulahu, Malga Shapra.” He let their kind words chase him from the hut, refusing to spare a glance backward lest he catch them gazing after him with concern or, worse, _pity_ twisting their faces.

If he were a better chieftain, he wouldn’t have spoiled Irikuum’s trade relations with Urukishnugal. He would have worked out a deal with Abvuul. Gods, he could have _killed_ him, and it might have created less of a mess than the trouble the village now found itself in, all thanks to his pride.

Well, no. On all counts, killing Chieftain Abvuul would have been extremely messy.

Hopefully his good relations with most of their neighboring villages would salvage their trade situation, if he could convince them to offer precious goods for the same value at which they’d been traded. _Remind them how Irikuum has helped protect them from the Huk_ , a thought occurred to him. _A village wants safety as much as trade supplies, nowadays_. _Trade them protection for goods_.

Another thought interrupted that consideration before it developed too far: _Might as well threaten them yourself, you idiot_.

Qymaen stepped out into the dry air of Irikuum and heaved a sigh dusted with a slight cough. Leading warriors against the Huk was easy. Exploiting advantages, utilizing strengths, developing strategies, balancing initiative with audacity, giving commands in the heat of battle, knowing when to push and when to fall back, the snap decisions that meant life or death—all easy through the perspective of a horde-leader and the scope of a slugthrower. Even easier to aim the rifle, pull the trigger and lead by example.

Why did the _rest_ of it have to be so hard?


	2. Chapter 2

_He stood in a clearing of a lush jungle he had never seen before. Lurid, shivering green and the stink of wet rot closed like a fist on his senses, the teeming air overwhelming and so much thicker than that of his home. Enormous trees loomed, choked with vines and the occasional splash of color and sweet perfume of star-blossomed flowers. Jagged palms and spear-sharp leaves the size of his torso wove a dense canopy overhead, though not enough to protect him from the rain that misted his leathers and plunged him deep into the thick mud at his feet._

_The jungle sang with sounds of life, but amid the calling birds, the chirp of insects, the patter of water on leaves and other unseen mysteries, an eruption from the undergrowth alerted him to danger. His hands clenched the hilts of a pair of Lig swords, and he whirled to face the noise._

_A mumuu, a massive bull with curved horns and an armored spine that rose from the creature’s back a good arms-length at its highest point, crashed bellowing out of the foliage and charged him. He did not hesitate, moving in perfect anticipation of the beast’s path. He leaped into the air, twisting until his toes braced against the nearest tree trunk to provide further leverage, and he flipped over the mumuu’s back, slicing one of his swords through hide and muscle as it passed below him. The great beast plowed into the mud, dead, and he landed unscathed on his feet a moment later._

_“Qymaen.”_

_He turned in a startled circle. A voice? Where had it come from?_

_“Qymaen.”_

_Someone was calling him. He continued to turn in place, scanning the press of jungle around him, training his ears and seeing nothing._

_“Qymaen jai Sheelal.”_

_He jerked his head upward and lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the rain._

_Only it wasn’t raining anymore._

_White motes drifted down on his upturned face, lighting on his brow and cheeks and tusks, chill to the touch. He licked his lips and the frozen flakes melted._

_He had seen snow once before, in the northern mountain reaches of the steppes when visiting another village. In Irikuum, it was too hot for snow to fall. It should have been too hot here in this jungle. He could still feel the heat. It was impossible._

_“Sheelal.”_

_No. The warmth was inside of him, smoldering, building, a hearth’s comfort centering him and filling him with something unspeakable, something indescribably wonderful, and it clutched his heart to wring a laugh from his throat and tears from his eyes until he could barely breathe, and then—_

Qymaen woke gasping for air.

For several disorienting seconds, he scrambled at the hides and furs that served as his blankets, gripping them to confirm reality. No jungle. No mumuu. No voice. Just his bed, his dark room and the still quiet belonging to the deep hours of the night. Qymaen dropped his head in his hands for another few moments, sucking in slow breaths to soothe his hammering heart.

Five years since he’d last had one of these dreams; enough time to forget how intensely, painfully _real_ they felt. Lingering impressions weighed on his mind and whispered to his senses, so vivid he flung back his bedclothes to see if his tunic was still damp with rain and his toes caked in mud. Of course, there was no physical evidence of what he had dreamt about. There never was...at least not until what he dreamed of came to be.

He breathed a muffled sigh into his palms. No use sitting huddled in bed for the rest of a sleepless night.

A few short minutes later, Qymaen knocked gently on the door of the holy man’s hut. For as much time that Zaebar and Nulahu spent there during the waking hours, they had their own home where they slept, so he had no concern of disturbing them. Even as his knuckles rapped the wood, however, he wondered if it was all worth rousing Malga Shapra for. Even if he knew _he_ wouldn’t be falling asleep again for the remainder of the night, did that justify troubling the poor old Malga with his dream before sunrise? But, before he could retreat without notice, the door cracked open. The Malga looked empty without his headdress.

“Qymaen? It’s so late. Has there been an attack?”

Qymaen’s stomach dropped in shame for having worried the old man. “Oh, no, Malga Shapra.” He stepped backward, prepared to flee his own embarrassment. “I’m sorry to wake you. It...it’s foolish, and not important enough to interrupt your sleep. I’ll be back in the morning.”

But Malga Shapra opened the door wide. “Don’t go, young chieftain. Please, come in, and tell me what troubles you.”

Soon, the pair of them sat opposite one another at the central hearth. While the Malga fed kindling into the flames, Qymaen folded as much of his lanky body as he could fit onto his cushion, drawing his knees close to his chest, feeling like a child seeking comfort after a nightmare as he described his dream. His other dreams had been nightmares; this time, he was less certain.

“Well?” he asked when he had finished. “What do you think?”

Malga Shapra peered into the flames as if they, perhaps, held the answer. “It is an interesting dream,” he murmured. “Hunting mumuu in the Kunbal jungle—but you are not trained in Lig, and I did not think you had ever traveled to the Kunbal or hunted mumuu.”

Qymaen could have done without the reminder of his wanting Lig skills, and he chose to overlook the comment. “It’s true, I’ve never hunted there,” he said instead. “I also assume it doesn’t usually snow in the jungle. What do you suppose that means?”

“I am not sure. Tell me, Qymaen, did you recognize the voice that was calling to you?”

The question caught Qymaen off guard. What _had_ the voice sounded like? In typical dreams—not the strange ones—sound rarely registered, defying his waking brain and leaving him with abstract impressions of moving pictures and notions. His _strange_ dreams, on the other hand, were so vivid as to confuse his mind into mistaking them for memories. The voice fell somewhere between the two extremes: neither the soundless muddle of an innocent dream nor the frightening, fateful clarity of his visions. “I don’t know,” he said, but he continued talking, the words spilling unexpectedly and with belated realization. “It almost seemed familiar. Like I heard it a long time ago, or I’ve been waiting a long time to hear it.”

“Did it feel evil?” asked the Malga.

“Not at all,” blurted Qymaen. Blinking at his abrupt adamance, he tried to remember _why_ he felt that way. His hands, which he’d folded together to pin his knees upright, crept closer to his chest and pressed over his heart. Though he closed his eyes and cast his thoughts deep, he couldn’t summon the sensation that had washed over him during the final moments of his dream, but at least he recalled it, now. “It felt... _hopeful_ ,” he decided. “Warm. Important.”

“Hmm.” Malga Shapra dragged his gaze from the hearth, meeting Qymaen’s eyes with pensive scrutiny. “The ancestors have blessed you before with foresight in your dreams. It may well be that they are trying to call you to the Kunbal. I advise you accept their blessing, and heed the call. The message was for you alone. You must go alone.”

Qymaen stared. He’d expected this; so why did he feel so _off-balance?_ It was as if the Malga had seized him by the shoulders to give him a good, destabilizing shake. He thanked the ancestors he wasn’t standing at the moment. “How soon?” he asked, striving to compose himself, but the hut spun around him and, feeling vulnerable, he tensed.

The Malga was composed enough for the two of them, voice steady, expression calm and certain. “As soon as you’ve rested. Take with you a pair of Lig swords. If you do not have two of your own, my nephew will lend you his.”

“I have Lig swords.” Glossy, forge-fresh and bare of blood—but his own.

Malga Shapra nodded. “Then you are ready. Go, young Qymaen, and see what is calling you.”

Still reeling, but determined not to spoil the gravity of the moment, Qymaen sought serenity from his own training, expelling a long breath until his muscles uncoiled and his vision settled. Feeling more balanced, if not certain, he bowed his head. “Thank you, Malga Shapra. I’ll leave at first light tomorrow.”

—

When dawn came, Qymaen rode out of Irikuum, he and his kuunsi weighed down by a traveling bag, his Czerka Outland rifle and two sheathed Lig swords. Dressed in his finest leathers, kakmusme painted and gleaming, chieftain’s dulhlava trailing like a long scarf, and with his clan cloak unfurled to the wind, he knew he cut a more impressive and confident figure to the gathered villagers than how he currently felt. He did not explain where he was going; setting out on a recruitment mission was not out of the ordinary for him, though he rarely traveled alone or for so long. Happily, no one questioned him, and he was saved the trouble of explaining the true purpose of this expedition.

Such as it was.

He struggled not to think about the absurdity of it all. Such a fanciful, romantic notion— _chasing a dream_ —the sort of thing one expected from stories and legends of old, not at all befitting the cruel reality that was life on Kalee since the invasion. Was now the time to listen to holy men who spoke of blessings from the ancestors? A blessing was nothing more than a Malga calling it a blessing, a wishful breath with no basis in the tangible, the true, the hard, palpable stuff that Kaleesh could grasp in their claws and put to practical purpose. What worth could a rifleman, a chieftain, a _horde-leader_ find in a promise from the great beyond? They were empty words, passed through the lips of an old man whose role it was in society to hold fast to the abstract ideas that served Kalee less in these terrible times than the pledge of a warrior or allegiance of another chieftain.

But it hadn’t all come from the Malga, Qymaen reminded himself uneasily. His dreams offered that same promise. All Malga Shapra had done was confirm what Qymaen believed, or at least what he supposed he believed. He did not offer belief freely these days. Belief demanded faith, which demanded trust, which demanded of him a willful vulnerability he had little desire to embrace. He trusted his mount, his warriors, his slugthrower—had faith in the things he could see, hear and touch—believed in what he could control. His dreams were echoes of impossible memories, reverberating back from what was yet to be, seen by the eyes of those who had come long before, passed to him in the space where consciousness brushed the unknown beyond corporal, mortal existence. That was what he was meant to believe. The ancestors, the gods, bestowing visions on _him_ , as if he had done something to deserve it, as if it all _meant_ something.

What were his dreams but shadows of faith?

Qymaen tried to imagine a scenario where he told the Malga he would not travel to the Kunbal to put meaning to his dream. He was the Chieftain of Irikuum, after all. Even if Malga Shapra was thrice his age, Qymaen did not have to do as the holy man advised if he didn’t choose it.

Yet, he chose to listen. He remembered what he’d felt at the height of his dream, and though it was not a thing he could see, hear, grasp, control or put to use, it cried out to him, stoking the fire in his chest that blazed with righteous fury whenever he resolved to protect the weak and helpless who could not themselves fight against the Huk.

Hope was a pitiful, fragile thing when it had nowhere to dwell. Even if it meant chasing a dream, he would cross the continent to restore hope’s warmth to his heart.

Qymaen stirred himself from his troubled thoughts to find his hands had fallen lax from the reins, and yet Imsa, ever as in tune with his intentions as her surroundings, was plodding southwest toward the Great Trade Road. Keen to leave his thoughts behind for the moment, Qymaen nudged his mount with his heels and clicked his tongue. Imsa plunged forward gratefully, and soon Qymaen’s head was filled with nothing more than the glorious rush of wind and grasses.

He followed the trade road for several days. It offered relative safety from the Huk, who did not recognize it as a road, as it wasn’t, in the strictest sense, but rather a sprawl of interwoven paths marked by discreet cairns and the occasional trading post. The Huk would no doubt raze the route it traced across the western continent if they ever realized its value, and so the Kaleesh, even those who might otherwise have warred with one another for precious resources, worked together to establish protective protocols that they might all benefit from trade. Qymaen carefully adhered to trade road etiquette, swapping paths when he spotted distant travelers approaching, moving well off the road before making camp for the night, and giving the designated trading posts wide berth to minimize unnecessary traffic. Almost a week passed before he steered Imsa further south, breaking from the road and putting the familiar steppes to his back. He had never been to the Kunbal jungle, but he knew it lay deeper south and further west than he’d had occasion to travel. A crude map stitched in juleem hide marked both the general shape of the continent and the star-patterns one could see in the sky, and he consulted the map every night by the glow of his campfire.

After another week passed, he began to notice promising changes in his surroundings. The air thickened with moisture and with it thrived the color _green_ , springing up in brilliant, alarming hues unseen in the arid steppes, even where the starved streams ran. This green had a smell, Qymaen soon realized—a muggy, botanical scent distinct from the watering holes and riverbanks back home, so pungent it coated his tongue and throat as if it were meant to be tasted. Imsa, at least, must have found the smell appetizing, for she grew increasingly stubborn about pausing for mouthfuls of slippery grass, ignoring the squeezing heels and complaints from her rider.

Before long, though, Qymaen didn’t mind the breaks. The Kunbal was starting to grow up around them in earnest, hour by hour further matching the jungle he’d seen in his dream, and he relished every opportunity to marvel over its strange beauty. While Imsa took a minute to graze, Qymaen stretched out a hand to touch a drooping, fan-splayed leaf longer than his arm. It didn’t crumble under his fingertips, but, testing its surface, he sliced a claw into the slick, waxy leaf like it was flesh, then wrinkled his nose at the sharp stench that issued from the gash he left behind. He suddenly felt quite guilty, having pointlessly scarred this magnificent leaf that had done nothing to him but look tantalizing and hang within reach.

“Sorry,” he muttered to no one, giving the reins a smart tug to steer Imsa away from what felt like the scene of a crime.

If the sights inspired awe, the sound of the Kunbal confused him. Insects buzzed noisily in the trees overhead, too similar to the chittering of Huk for Qymaen to do anything but hunch on his mount in an instinctive attempt to make himself a smaller target. His kuunsi’s trudging hoofbeats were muffled by the mud and fallen leafage, deadened by the ever-growing wall of trees around them. Sound travelled well in the wide, open steppes, echoing for kilometers. Here, the jungle swallowed all but the loudest noises—those chittering insects, the cries from tropical birds, a rumble of approaching, ominous thunder—

The crush of undergrowth as if under a large body.

Qymaen drew Imsa to a halt and fell still, ears pricking up, hands tensed on the reins.

The rustling persisted. Something was _there_ , some meters ahead of where he sat on his mount, moving its way through the jungle with incautious steps.

Could it really be a mumuu?

He thanked the ancestors for the smothering jungle. His heart pounded in his ears, but at least the sound of it wouldn’t carry. If he was to approach this apparition from his dream, he intended to do so stealthily.

Gods, but what was the _point_ of it? If he stepped into a clearing and found a mumuu’s deadly horns bearing down on him—if he killed the beast with his Lig swords—what then? Did he expect someone to start calling him from the trees? Did he expect to look up and see snowfall? At what point did the dream paint poetry, and when did it lay out events as they were meant to happen? Was it even _meant_ to happen? Everything he’d seen in his previous visions had come to pass no matter what he did, so what would make this dream any different? What, _still_ , was the point of it?

 _Stop thinking about it_ , a voice scolded him from the back of his mind, interrupting his racing thoughts so thoroughly Qymaen half-wondered if it wasn’t, in fact, someone else’s voice. _Do something about it_.

He could still hear the creature, traipsing through the leaf litter, moving away from him.

If there was no meaning to it, he might as well find out now.

As quietly as he could, Qymaen dismounted his kuunsi and wound her reins around a nearby branch. He had removed his cloak, duhlhava and kakmusme a day earlier to combat the uncomfortable humidity, but now he strapped his bonemask into place, ignoring the other unnecessary accoutrements; the dulhlava was sweltering, and the cape would probably have gotten tangled in the foliage. He left his slugthrower with Imsa, but unsheathed his Lig swords and tested them in his grip. His swift, flourishing twirl might have indicated great skill to a non-warrior, but it was one of very few things Qymaen could do with his blades. He doubted a mumuu would find his little twirls impressive.

After a final pat and shush for Imsa, Qymaen stalked forward, tracking the sound of footfalls through the forest. In a frustrating development, now that he was actively listening, the supposed mumuu had either put more distance between them or was treading more delicately. He could no longer gauge its proximity. A few meters? More? 

No. Another crunch, soft but shockingly near. It was _right there_ , beyond a curtain of palm fronds.

Impatience got the better of his nerves. Qymaen sprang forward, slashing the fronds out of the way, charging with his blades outstretched into a familiar clearing.

It was not a mumuu bull that awaited him.

A Kaleesh warrior whirled to face him. Qymaen fought his own momentum, so focused on restraining himself from attacking the stranger that he barely had the wherewithal to take in the sight of them. He didn’t even have time to come to a complete halt before the other warrior moved.

In a fleeting blur, the strange warrior leaped into the air. Clawed toes dug into the carpet of moss on the nearest tree—sharp metal gleamed and thrust with deadly precision—and in that heady moment, caught between the waking world and the visceral memory of his vision, Qymaen knew what was happening. Twin Lig swords plunged toward him, angling for his spine, but he wasn’t cut down as the mumuu had been in his dream. He flung himself to the side. The blades found only air.

The other warrior flipped off the tree and dropped to the ground with such effortless dexterity the impossible maneuver looked simple. There was a pause as the two warriors sized each other up through the sockets of their bonemasks—Qymaen off-kilter and gripping his blades in inexpert hands, the stranger having landed in a perfectly poised crouch—with equal attention granted to the color and style of their leathers and respective regalia. Even without his cloak, Qymaen knew he was easily pegged for a warrior of the Ausez Steppes, with his wrappings, light armor and earthen tones. The same could not be said for his opponent. He’d never seen slate grey paired with a blood-red cloak, and the sigil painting the warrior’s kakmusme was unknown to him. A mane of brown hair fell in waves down the warrior’s back, partially tied up in a way that suggested regional fashion. His eyes darted to the warrior’s bonemask again, desperately trying to place the clan sigil, and that was when Qymaen noticed the tusks. The kakmusme was that of a karabbac, so rare in the north as to be considered mythical by most steppes villages, but though Qymaen had never seen a living karabbac beast, he knew it to be tusked like Kaleesh. _Those_ tusks he could see, curving over the warrior’s own mandibular tusks—but his gaze tracked down, passing over the warrior’s chin, protruding from the bottom of the mask. Smooth. No chin tusks.

A woman warrior? 

Neither unheard of nor common. Qymaen still found himself taken aback at a time when he couldn’t afford to be distracted.

“I’m surprised you dodged that,” spoke up the stranger, yanking Qymaen back to reality as effectively as the Lig sword slicing through the air toward his face. “Considering you’re about as clumsy as a mumuu bull.” Her voice confirmed what her chin already told him. She also awarded him no time to congratulate himself for his powers of observation, and he parried her blow with a frantic swipe.

If he weren’t busy dancing backwards as if his life depended on it, Qymaen might have simply stood in awe of her choice of words. As it was, his compromised footing and general lack of Lig competency forced him to dodge instead of engage his opponent. He suspected she could have already killed him if she wanted to, oaf that he was, but instead she simply pursued and seemed to have a good time bullying him with both blades, swinging in a series of achingly near misses that teased his leathers. Eventually, she arched her swords in quick succession at his feet. Qymaen jumped in the air to avoid the blades—straight into a well-aimed kick to the chest.

With an explosive gasp, Qymaen slammed into the trunk of a jungle tree. The sheer impact knocked the wind from his lungs and more: he lost his grip on his own weapons and his mask jounced loose, slipping and joining his dropped swords amid the tripping roots of the tree. He landed a second later in an awkward, painful sprawl, wheezing for breath from air so thick he might as well be drinking it.

 _And this is when she decides to kill me_ , he thought, bracing himself for the waiting arms of the ancestors.

But, looking up through watering eyes, he saw the other warrior hanging back a few meters, staring down at him.

“Your form is _terrible_ ,” she jeered before, to his astonishment and consternation, she lowered her swords to her sides and relaxed her posture in complete abandonment of their duel. She didn’t consider him a threat. She might as well have spat in his bared face. “What are you doing in this jungle, boy? Hoping to fight me for the mumuu I’ve been tracking?”

Qymaen swallowed a surge of indignation; she couldn’t have been a few years his elder, and she had the gall to address him so? If only he had worn his dulhlava and cloak. However, as he glared up at her mocking eyes and fought to catch his breath, he knew there was more to this encounter than an incidental scuffle.

He recognized her voice.

Hand pressed to his aching chest, Qymaen barely managed to speak through gasps. “I—didn’t come here—to fight you—I don’t think.”

“I don’t think so, either, if that’s what you call fighting,” said the stranger disdainfully.

“No, I—” Using the tree as a brace, Qymaen pulled himself to his feet, then put up his hands in peace. That the other warrior didn’t even tense her muscles annoyed him in ways he couldn’t express, and preferred not to in his own bid for diplomacy. “I am Qymaen jai Sheelal, chieftain of my village.”

She laughed at him. “I’m sorry for your village.”

His voice rasped in frustration. “Please, _listen!_ I-I had a dream about our meeting. I dreamt that you would be here.”

Finally, a reaction other than pure derision. Her fingers tightened on the hilts of her Lig swords and her eyes narrowed to slits. “What are you talking about?”

Qymaen, hoping she wasn’t about to lash out at him, lowered his hands as he tried to explain himself. For all the lunacy in his words, he could at least deliver them in a calm, rational manner. “About two weeks ago, I had a dream that I came to the Kunbal to hunt mumuu with Lig swords. I’d never been here before. In my dream, a voice called to me as it began to snow, right here in this spot. So I came, but now I realize it wasn’t me hunting the mumuu—it was _you_. You were the person with the Lig swords in my dream. And it was _your_ voice.” He met her suspicious gaze with an apologetic wince. “I know it sounds crazy. Believe me, I know. But this isn’t the first time I’ve had a dream like this. And...here we are.”

A long pause passed between them. At length, the stranger reached and pushed her mask up past her forehead, revealing a frown and a furrowed brow. Now that he could see her face, Qymaen put her close to Zaebar’s age—still not old enough to call him _boy_. More important was her expression of deep puzzlement, rather than the expected skepticism. “You said it snowed in your dream?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She seemed to consider this, then lifted her chin. “I am Ronderu lij Kummar.”

Qymaen’s eyes shot open wide at her clan name. “ _Lij?_ ” he echoed in a stunned exhale. “Then...that means you’re from Grendaju.”

Grendaju. The southern ice continent. Where snow fell so deep it buried the very mountains. Snowfall in the jungle. A warrior of Grendaju, armed with Lig swords, dropping from a tree to land in front of him. He, in his mumuu mask.

Coincidence was becoming less and less likely.

“So it would seem,” said Ronderu coolly, unaware of just how far Qymaen had traveled in his own thoughts. She offered him a slight smirk. “Sheelal, you said? You’re certainly living up to your name.”

He blinked at her admission. Did she really believe him? He knew the evidence supported his dream, fantastical as it was, but it felt too... _easy_. Like she was humoring him, as she had during their pitiful excuse for a fight. He turned the focus back to her. “And what about your name?” he asked. He’d honed in on her clan, but he couldn’t overlook her earned name. _Kummar_. Just thinking it evoked a chill. “Do I want to know what you did to earn it?”

“No,” she replied simply before sheathing her swords on her back in a fluid motion. She removed her bonemask entirely, hooking it onto her belt for their conversation, then crossed her lean arms as she looked him up and down with an arched eyebrow. “So, now what, Sheelal? You dreamt up this moment. What do we do with it?”

Since she was relaxing, Qymaen followed suit, stooping to retrieve his kakmusme and swords. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “I woke up before we got to this point.”

“Hmph. Helpful.”

Qymaen summoned the sort of stilted gravitas he typically employed when meeting with other chieftains. “I do know my dream left me with the understanding that our meeting was of great consequence.”

She smirked at him again, and he flushed. Gods, he’d managed to find the voice that had called to him from within his very dreams—to what aim, he had yet to determine—and she made him feel a fool at every turn. “I’m _very_ consequential,” she quipped.

“Oh, yes?” Annoyance was beginning to creep into his voice.

“Well, it’s not every day you meet a demigod.”

Qymaen gave her a flat stare as he leaned against the tree. “This is not that day.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“You’re not making it easy.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“Tell me about yourself, then. Tell me about your clan.”

“I have no clan.”

This threw off the building rhythm of their conversation, which Qymaen interrupted with a staccato huff of incredulity. “Everyone has a clan!”

Ronderu shrugged, unfazed by his outburst. “I’m a traveling sellsword. If you pay me well enough, I’ll say I’m from whatever clan you like.”

“But you have a sigil on your kakmusme, and you called yourself ‘Lij’,” he argued. “Lij is a Grendaju clan. You said you were from Grendaju.”

“ _You_ said I was from Grendaju. Maybe this is the Lij Clan sigil. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe someone there paid me _very_ well. Would you know the difference?” With a shift of her hip, she rebounded the focus to him, tipping her head at a thoughtful angle. “What about you, Sheelal? From the Ausez Steppes, right? How did someone so young become chieftain of his village? Were all the other warriors dead?”

He couldn’t help but bristle, punctuating his sharp tone with stinging nettles. “I’ve killed more Huk than anyone else I know of.”

“Not with those swords.”

“No. With my rifle.”

“Ah.” She wrinkled her nose. “ _Slugthrowers_.”

He didn’t need the visual aid to register her distaste. Growing even more defensive, he demanded, “How many Huk have you killed with your blades?”

“I don’t fight the Yam’rii,” she said.

For a moment Qymaen assumed he’d misheard. He’d already prepared himself for a number—surely a number smaller than his own estimate of his kills to date—but for that number to be _nothing_ —to realize she spoke with certainty, without a shred of a smile or hint that she might still be teasing him—it struck him with the same force as her earlier kick to his chest, and left him just as stunned. “You...you don’t...what?” he stammered.

“What do you expect from me? I have no clan, no village to protect. No one’s hired me to fight the invaders, and I’m not about to risk my neck doing it by myself when they haven’t harmed me personally.”

No. No longer stunned. Her calm infuriated him as much as her words, and he countered it with a spike of outrage he didn’t even bother trying to contain, the instinctive, seething ferocity he quieted by necessity whenever he lay in wait with his rifle or bartered with less than cooperative chieftains. It spilled up and over and wrenched a growl from deep in his chest. “How _dare_ you call yourself a demigod when you have no care for our people? How can you be so stone-hearted? How can you not _fight?!_ ”

Ronderu watched his composure fail, golden gaze shrewd as it rolled from his clenched, shaking fists to his bared teeth and wild eyes. “I take it they harmed you, then.”

“ _Ya, íb-ku huul!_ ” he snarled. “Of course they have! They’ve harmed _all_ Kaleesh!” He advanced a few steps without thinking, too caught up in his tirade to notice her fingers twitch as if prepping to snatch for her weapons. “What have you been doing all these years? What sort of sellsword are you? Who have you been hired to _fight_ , if not the Huk? Kaleesh aren’t wasting time and resources fighting _each other_ anymore!”

Despite everything, Ronderu smiled, a vague, bitter writhing of her lips. “Maybe not near your little village, but if you really believe that’s the case all over the world, you’re more naive than I thought. It’s almost sweet.” She moved forward, then, not just a couple of paces but bridging the gap between them in a few swift strides. She stood quite close, well beyond a comfortable proximity under normal circumstances, baffling when it put her within a tusk’s-length of a blood-boiled warrior. But as soon as she entered his space, Qymaen’s fury faltered and fell away in a fluster of confusion. Never mind the fact that she stood eye-to-eye with him, if not a few centimeters taller. She was near enough to bring with her a swell of unfamiliar kuu-lir, so unlike the soothing pheromones of his Jai Clan kin or the aggressive, agitating reek of a confrontational chieftain. By no means was it the balm that settled his soul like his training exercises, but rather he found himself unaccountably transfixed and rooted to the spot, too bewildered to react otherwise. Ronderu’s nostrils flared briefly, testing his own scent, and, satisfied she was the one in control of this encounter, she spoke with casual confidence. “I’ll tell you what, little chieftain: if you pay me in food, lodging and a small fee per week in whatever trade goods you steppes types find valuable, I’ll help you fight your battles against the Huk.”

His anger had faded, but resentment stuck in his throat like the growl that hadn’t quite left his voice. “What?” He finally found his feet and retreated to a reasonable distance, glaring at her. “Why the change of heart?”

“No change. No heart. Just business.” Ronderu grinned. “But for what it’s worth, I admire your spirit. You seem like an honorable kid, and if you’re so passionate and _desperate_ about this war of yours, I know you’re willing to give me what I ask in exchange for my help.”

Could this really be what the ancestors meant for him? Was this the purpose of his dream? To bring him a mercenary—this skilled but insolent sellsword from Grendaju—who was so selfish she hadn’t once raised her blade against the slaver scum who had defiled their planet for nearly fifteen years?

Was she worth it?

Qymaen dove back into the memory of his dream, scouring it for deeper meaning, for a glimpse of something, anything more than symbolic imagery and the comparatively pale reflection of reality. The jungle. The mumuu. The swords. The snow. The voice. The feeling.

The _swords_.

What had he and Zaebar been talking about, so soon before he’d had his dream?

No coincidences.

“You will also train me in Lig combat,” he told Ronderu.

She laughed in his face, a surprised, almost delighted sound. “Will I?”

“Yes.” He folded his arms, straightening his spine and stretching his heels for a little extra, gratifying height, and stared into her glinting eyes. “At no extra cost.”

Ronderu clapped her hands, a crack that set Qymaen flinching and cursing inwardly at her unfailing ability to unbalance him. “The chieftain has spoken,” she declared. “So be it, Sheelal.”

A rumble of thunder answered her clapping hands as the sky opened up and sent the edge of the approaching storm misting down on them. They both shielded their unmasked faces and squinted up into the drizzle. _Well, it isn’t snow_ , Qymaen thought, though he mimed his actions from his dream and licked his lips to taste what fell. Fresh, and cooler than the hot, sticky air. Better than well-water or what they collected in the rain catchers in Irikuum, at any rate.

Ronderu, considerably less impressed by the phenomenon of falling rain, flipped her ragged, crimson cloak up over her damp hair and grimaced. “You live in a desert, right? What say you we head back that way before this jungle decides to drown us?”

Perhaps it had been foolish to believe whatever he found in the Kunbal would move him to weep for joy as it had in his dream. Poetic license—like the snow, or like the Malga’s blessings.

At least the journey home wouldn’t be so lonely.


	3. Chapter 3

By the ancestors, did she ever stop _talking?_

During the first few days of traveling, Qymaen enjoyed having Ronderu lij Kummar by his side. After weeks of no one but his kuunsi for company—who, though a fine mount, was a terrible conversationalist—it was refreshing to wake in the morning and break fast with another Kaleesh, to point out star-patterns in the evening when it was time to consult the route back to Irikuum, or even to gently argue about whether a strange, colorful tropical plant they found was edible (it wasn’t, to their shared regret). With two of them, now, it was also justifiable for them to stop by trading posts to barter for provisions, which were generally a step up from juleem jerky.

But after a week, Qymaen was ready to leap on his kuunsi and leave Ronderu to follow his tracks. Maybe he wouldn’t have found it all so insufferable if their conversations had continued in the same practical way as they had begun—that is, discussing what pertained directly to their journey. But he quickly found Ronderu had a habit of peppering her speech with fantastical anecdotes and stories, each more unbelievable than the last. He had little patience for her boasting and hyperbole, and as the days dragged on he found himself increasingly irritable and sullen in the face of her histrionics. It was safer, he decided, to keep his mouth shut when she annoyed him. If he wanted her cooperation in the future, never mind her lessons in Lig combat, better not to lash out at her...though he was beginning to wonder if he would survive her tutelage, at this rate.

Ronderu, meanwhile, noted her companion’s reticence and assumed it was simply his nature. By her own assessment, Qymaen jai Sheelal took himself quite seriously; unsurprising, given his dichotomy of youth and high status. Of course, for every withering glower or roll of the eyes he gave her stories, she rallied with double the enthusiasm and absurdity. It delighted her to no end to know her tales had more than a shred of truth to them, well-traveled as she was, but the suspicious young chieftain, who she now realized rarely ventured outside the Ausez Steppes, doubted every word that passed her lips. He didn’t believe that she had sailed with pirates, or that she’d seen the sacred island of Abesmi, or that she’d traded riddles with the guardian spirit of a mountain shrine that housed the thousands of entombed bones and weapons of the ancient kolkpravis. She suspected a part of him also wondered if somehow her stories could be true—that such wondrous things existed in a realm of possibility well outside of his comfortable, village-bound understanding—and that seemed to exasperate him even more than his misgivings.

Oh, and it was _fun_ to exasperate him. He was so very bad at hiding it, after all.

Half a moon cycle measured their trek to the steppes, and the dawn of what Qymaen hoped would be their last day of travel saw them back among the dried scrub and ribboned badlands he recognized as close to home. By the time the sun blazed straight down on their progress, they were trudging through a dried-out gulch, walled in on both sides by steep, rainbow walls of sandstone and clay. While most of the journey had seen them trading spots on the kuunsi, Qymaen had grudgingly relinquished Imsa’s saddle to Ronderu once the climate skewed too hot and dry for her comfort. He led the kuunsi by her reins, guiding her up out of the canyon and into the familiar rolling hills just outside of Irikuum. He was acutely aware of Ronderu in his peripheral vision, making wild gestures as she told another story.

“—And so I leaped on the karabbac’s back! It tried to throw me off, but I jabbed my boneknife into its side to hold on—my swords were still all the way on the other side of the cave, remember—but using my knife I managed to—”

“You did _not_ ride a karabbac,” Qymaen shot over his shoulder.

“No, that wouldn’t be an accurate description. I _crushed_ that karabbac.” Ronderu laughed, exultant. “Anyway, I killed it in the end. Where do you think I got my kakmusme from?”

Qymaen shook his head, grumbling under his breath. “Your stories are outrageous.”

Ronderu gave the reins a sharp tug from her mount, forcing Qymaen to stop in his tracks and readjust his grip. “Oh, and I’m supposed to believe you’ve killed _hundreds_ of Huk in ten years with that slugthrower of yours?”

“That’s a low estimate. Anyway, if you’re going to keep insulting it, maybe _I_ should teach _you_ how to use a rifle. Show you its value.”

“Hah! No, thanks. I’ve seen slugthrowers in action, and let me tell you, I’m not impressed.”

Qymaen’s ego stirred and he rose to the challenge, trading composure for a proud, scathing glare as he growled, “You haven’t seen _me_ in action.”

Ronderu grinned at that, preparing to retort that she had, in point of fact, already seen him in action back in the Kunbal. Her expression shifted as her eyes focused past Qymaen, squinting. “Hey. Is that smoke?”

Qymaen turned and followed her gaze. A plume of dark grey curled into the sky, issuing from an unseen point beyond the sloping hill they stood before—from within the nearest valley. His stomach plummeted. “Oh, gods, my village.” Abandoning the reins, he took off sprinting up the hill.

“Wait!” Ronderu rode after Qymaen, catching up easily. “What’s going on?”

“ _Huk_ ,” Qymaen spat behind him before, the moment he reached the crest of the hill, throwing himself to the ground. “Get off Imsa and put her out of sight, you idiot! Do you want them to see us coming?”

Ronderu rankled at his harsh words, but just as quickly understood when she looked down into the valley. At least a kilometer away, smoke issued from a distant scattering of buildings—Qymaen’s village, without a doubt—and alongside it sat a large, metallic, irregular shape that could only be a Yam’rii starship. Forgiving the young chieftain for his panic-fueled insult, she dismounted, drew the kuunsi back a ways down the hill, and tied her to a small tukbrush shrub. It was more a symbolic gesture than an effective means of keeping such a beast anchored in place, and Ronderu hoped—and strongly suspected, given her own experiences—the creature was well-behaved enough to understand that she was meant to stay put. After a quick pat to Imsa’s muzzle, Ronderu hurried to join Qymaen, crouching in the grass beside him. She eyed him dubiously; he had removed his rifle from his back.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking to see how many there are.” He propped his elbows in the dirt, having progressed past the need for a bipod some years earlier, and peered through the scope of his weapon. “And then I’ll kill them.”

“From here? Seems a little optimistic.”

Qymaen ignored her and began assessing the situation below. One of the huts was the source of the smoke they’d spotted, its roof caved in and its canvas-draped walls aflame from blaster fire. A few men clashed with the raiders, but Irikuum itself was not home to the majority of Qymaen’s horde. He swallowed a surge of seething bile when he spotted a number of warriors sprawled unmoving in the streets. A swift count confirmed a dozen or so Huk still swarmed the village, some having collected their stunned targets in electro nets, others deliberately baiting warriors away from their captives and the path back to their starship.

“At least a dozen,” he muttered, mostly to himself, as he fastened his kakmusme to his face. He lifted his voice. “Will you prove your worth by helping me?”

Ronderu arched an eyebrow. “You want me to go charging down there?”

His response came clipped and terse, muffled by his mask. “Not straight in. Their ship is to the east. Loop around and enter the village from the western gate. Take or leave my kuunsi; whatever your preference. You can lure the ones I can’t see out into the open, between the village and their ship. They _will_ chase you down if they think you’re trying to reach their ship. I trust you can take care of any stragglers. I’ll kill the rest.”

Her incredulity wavered. She’d hardly heard him string more than two sentences together since the day they’d met in the jungle, and yet he spoke now as if he’d been dying for the excuse, confidence rolling out from him as natural as the tide. Still, without actions to support his assertions, Ronderu had no more reason to trust in his abilities now than before. “And what if I end up surrounded by a dozen Huk because you’re not as good as you think you are?” she challenged him.

“I am,” he snapped. “I’ll cover you. I promise I won’t let any of them harm you.”

Ronderu met his glittering eyes, taken aback by his intensity—and impressed by his conviction. _Might as well see what he can do_ , she thought, _and show him in kind_. Aloud, she sighed and slipped her bonemask on. “If you say so.” She stood, nodded. “See you on the other side, Sheelal.” And she loped down the hill toward Irikuum.

Qymaen watched her through his scope, taking slow, preparatory breaths. Nothing about the current situation brought him pleasure, but he noted, at least, that Ronderu heeded his strategy, closing in on the village from the western side. For all her boasting and tall tales, she responded to the certainty of battle as readily as any member of his horde. He hoped he could depend on her to fight as well as his loyal warriors. He rested his finger on the trigger, listened to the soft billow of his own lungs, and waited.

Ronderu entered Irikuum, no less disappointed by what she saw on the inside of the wall than the outside. A _sneeze-by_ , she called places like this: a village so small and inconsequential a passing traveler could sneeze at one end and ride out the other without ever noticing there had been a village there at all. But it was, she supposed, a home—to however few, as well as Sheelal—and she had pledged herself to protect this paltry shamble of huts and dust. She followed sounds of distress down what passed for a street and rounded a corner to the sight of a handful of Huk cornering a bleeding, disarmed warrior. One of the Huk stood away from the group, blaster held loose at its side, watching the scene unfold with an air of bored amusement. 

She sliced its head off.

The two dull thuds that followed spun the other four Huk around, globular eyes goggling at Ronderu, mandibles parting in sneers. Ignoring the other warrior, who collapsed exhausted to the dirt, they began to advance on this new interloper, hissing with what Ronderu liked to imagine was annoyance in their alien tongue.

She twirled each of her Lig swords in succession, flinging green blood in a spiral around the spot where she held her ground. “Come on, then,” she taunted, as she jerked her chin toward the crumpled, beheaded Huk. “Do better than _that_ one.”

One of the Huk raiders split from the group and moved forward, swiping at her with bladed arms. Ronderu ducked and weaved for a minute, using the opportunity to measure the opposing warrior’s speed and the way it moved. They were all built roughly the same—tall, angular and imposing, with arm-blades that functioned as sickle-shaped swords as easily as massive, bone-cutting shears if positioned to devastating effect. She imagined they all fought the same way, as well. Satisfied with her observations, she put an end to their dance, stabbing the Huk through the thorax with both Lig swords and wrenching her arms apart. Through the spray of green, she saw the other raiders already learning from their fallen comrade’s mistake, pressing forward as a group.

 _Time to go_ , she thought, recalling Sheelal’s plan, and rather grateful for it. She now knew she could kill one of these bugs at a time with ease, but facing three at once was inviting a fatal misstep until she had more experience with them. She turned on her heel, facing east, and bolted through the village. The Huk pursued, taking the bait.

They were faster than Ronderu expected. It was the size, she decided. Something that big had no right to move that quickly, in her experience of facing down such creatures as mumuu or karabbac. Large beasts, even when barreling full tilt at the object of their ire, possessed a sort of ambling gait, their speed subject to their own prodigious mass. As long as there was space to move, one could duck out of the way of the rolling momentum of a charging beast. But mumuu and karabbac were four-legged animals; the Huk were bipedal like Kaleesh, and hunted like Kaleesh. They sprinted after Ronderu, and even though she pushed herself until the wind tore at her throat and a twinge stitched her side, she felt them closing the distance. _Taller—longer legs—you fool_ , her mind scolded her for her failure to take such things into account. In her periphery, she saw two of the Huk were beginning to draw up alongside her, preparing to cut her off.

Suddenly, the buildings vanished. Packed dirt gave way to dried grasses that scratched at Ronderu’s calves like grasping claws, threatening to stumble her pace. She coursed forward with a final burst of strength, not daring to shift her trajectory, running for the Yam’rii starship. Sunlight bloomed off its metallic surface, blindingly bright, but she couldn’t let it distract her, not when she could hear the footfalls thudding ever closer, pressing in from both sides. She ducked her head to shield her eyes, and saw the bodies a split-second too late. She had no time to process why there would be bodies at all before they tripped her.

Her toes hooked on the armored chitin of a Huk corpse and she hit the ground hard, spluttering and sending up a stream of colorful curses. Rolling onto her back and yanking her swords into play, Ronderu aimed a snarl up at the closest raider, who in turn staggered over a discarded bundle of unconscious Kaleesh captives, barbed feet tangling in the cables of the electro net.

A thunderclap rang out through the valley. The Huk’s head erupted as if a blasting charge had been placed inside its skull, raining blood down on Ronderu’s startled, upturned face.

The remaining Huk jabbered at one another in a panic and whirled in place, seeking their attacker, but he was a good kilometer away, squinting through a rifle scope, his deep breaths steadying his hands and delivering death. Two more shots cracked the sky, and two more Huk dropped dead.

Still panting from the chase, Ronderu cast her weary gaze around her immediate surroundings, taking in the grisly but gratifying sight. In addition to the three raiders who had followed her out of the cover of Irikuum’s huts, several more Huk lay strewn and head-shot around her. Craning her neck, she watched as the glinting starship lifted into the sky and shot away across the steppes, the survivors shrewdly abandoning the enterprise that had left so many of them dead. She smirked. As if Sheelal and his slugthrower could have taken down a _starship_.

Though she supposed she couldn’t discount the admirable carnage around her.

While villagers began to materialize cautiously, a few venturing beyond the outer wall to get a better look at what had driven the raiders away, Ronderu crouched by one of the nearby electro nets. The net carried no charge, she learned after darting a finger in to test it, and so she took up one of her swords and began cutting the captives loose. She had just finished emptying one net and laid out the unconscious villagers to the side when she heard the approach of voices.

The huddle of villagers shuffled to a halt several meters away when Ronderu glanced up. “Th-thank you, stranger,” called out one woman.

“Who are you?” It was the injured warrior from earlier; he clutched a bleeding arm, but seemed more interested in Ronderu’s presence than his own well-being. “Where did you come from? You came just in time...”

“Hang on,” said another, bending over one of the Huk bodies and squinting. “This looks like Chieftain Sheelal’s work.”

Ronderu heaved a sigh, relieved to hear the name. It spared her a lengthy explanation, something she wasn’t prepared to offer a gaggle of strangers who were staring at her as if she’d sprouted a second head. “Yes, Sheelal, he brought me here. He’s…” She lifted a blade and gestured to the hills. “Somewhere. Ah. There.”

Further relief. The man in question descended the far hillside, astride his kuunsi. Other villagers streamed out of Irikuum and away from Ronderu to intercept him, excitedly welcoming him home and lifting their voices in grateful adulation. Ronderu shrugged off her own lukewarm reception. No need for petty jealousy. He was their chieftain, a familiar face, clearly adored; she was almost as much an intruder as the Huk. She busied herself cutting open the last electro net, and, with no small amount of impatience, waved over the nearest, uncertain villagers for assistance.

Qymaen, meanwhile, dismounted Imsa and landed in the throng of happy villagers. He soon found Zaebar in their midst. “How many?” he asked his cousin bluntly.

Zaebar pushed back his mask to reveal his somber face. He didn’t need Qymaen to clarify. “Four lost. Ten injured. We’d managed to kill three of theirs before you showed up.” After a slight hesitation, he moved in for a warrior’s salute and lowered his voice. “Welcome back, by the way. Did you find what you were looking for?”

Qymaen grasped Zaebar’s forearm and glanced over his shoulder. “Maybe.”

“Chieftain Sheelal,” cut in the man with the bloodied arm, “do you know that strange warrior with the Lig swords?”

Qymaen turned to the warrior. He couldn’t interpret his tone, and kept his own neutral. “I brought her here myself. I’ve recruited her to my horde.”

“A _woman_ warrior?”

“Where does she come from?”

“What is her clan?”

“She saved my life. Who cares what clan she belongs to?”

Qymaen focused past the raised, agitated voices and gesticulations, watching Ronderu. She stood aside from the pile of corpses he’d created, pointing flustered villagers toward the unconscious captives she had freed from the electro nets. She propped her arms akimbo and watched the others hoist friends and family members away toward their huts—and though for a knee-jerk instant he resented her declination to help carry the victims, he just as quickly wondered if she wasn’t giving the families their space. This was not her village, her clans, her kin. She had not yet been welcomed here, even if she had curried the favor of their chieftain; _they_ didn’t know that, yet. So she helped, but maintained a respectful distance, leaving kin to kin. He appreciated her decorum, at odds as it was with everything he thought he’d learned about her during their travels.

 _Well,_ he thought wryly, _either that, or she actually doesn’t want to help lug bodies_.

He realized the villagers around him were still squabbling, and trying to pull him back into the conversation. He put an immediate end to that, making a sharp, slicing motion with his hand that hushed their fiery tongues like water thrown on a hearth. “Harvest the Huk bodies,” he ordered. “We’ll have enough new armor for twenty warriors. And salvage whatever weapons you can find—the electro nets, as well. It’s rare to have so many on hand. If we can get them working, they would be useful for hunting.”

“Of course, Chieftain Sheelal.”

“You heard him! Help me haul these carcasses to the tanner.”

Zaebar leaned in close once more, frowning, his eyes serious as he studied what little he could read of Qymaen’s expression through his bonemask. “Uncle told me about your vision. No details. Just that you had one.” He glanced to the side. “Did the ancestors send you to find that warrior?”

What self-possession he mustered in front of the bulk of the villagers faltered in the face of his cousin’s questioning. Beneath his mask, Qymaen freely chewed his lip in an unseen dither. “I hope so.”

Zaebar chuffed in disbelief. “Well, you were gone a pretty long time for just a _hope_ , Qy.”

“Believe me, I know.” Qymaen sighed. “Can you help out with the bodies? I need to talk to her.”

“Then we’re going the same way.”

They crossed the grass and split off from one another after a few steps, Zaebar joining the other villagers in collecting the valuable Huk corpses, Qymaen sidling over to where Ronderu stood away from the group. She paused in what she was doing—wiping blood from her blades with a handful of her frayed cape—and glanced over at him, expectant.

Qymaen removed his kakmusme. “Well.”

Ronderu straightened, sheathed her swords, and mirrored him. “ _Well_. Your plan worked.”

He stepped forward and, to both of their surprise, tilted into a bow. “Thank you for your help, Ronderu lij Kummar. If it weren’t for you, more lives may have been lost here today, and more of my people taken.” _Too formal_ , Qymaen instantly berated himself. _Should have saluted_.

Indeed, Ronderu appeared nonplussed by the solemn, deferential treatment. Qymaen had half-expected her to bask in his gratitude, but quite the opposite seemed to be happening. After a moment, she bobbed her shoulders in dismissal and deflected, “There aren’t any more of those things left, are there?”

He shook his head. “Our warriors managed to kill three of them. You killed those two at the other end of town—masterfully, I admit. The rest are here and accounted for, those that didn’t flee.”

Ronderu squinted. “Hold on. You saw me kill those Huk? You could see us?”

“I was watching, yes.”

Her hands shot skyward. “And you didn’t help?”

Qymaen finally smiled. If Ronderu weren’t so busy feeling indignant, she might have noticed it was the first time he’d smiled in front of her. “I would have taken the shot if it seemed you were in danger, but...you looked like you could take care of yourself.”

“Why was I down there at all if you could see them well enough to shoot them?!”

His smile spread. “I wanted to see how well you would fight the Huk. And you were impressive—though I wonder what that makes me?”

Ronderu stared at him, or rather, at his impish smile. For someone who seemed to take himself so seriously, it was a welcome sight. Rather, it _should_ have been welcome. Here he was, offering her pity-laced praise like a condescending consolation prize—which it might as well have been, considering what little she had contributed to the fight. But still there was praise, and she returned it, grudgingly acknowledging the fact that she deserved every bit of smug teasing on his part. She’d mocked him incessantly on their travels, after all. “You were pretty impressive, too. Maybe there’s some truth to your stories.”

“And yours.” He lifted an eyebrow. “But you won’t _ever_ convince me that you rode a karabbac.”

This drew forth a grin of her own. Given the choice, she’d rather be smiling. “Oh, I’ll break you down eventually, Sheelal.”

Qymaen turned, waving her toward the village. “Come. After we tend to the dead and wounded and repair what was damaged, we will hold a feast to welcome you to Irikuum. I know you haven’t traveled much in the Ausez Steppes; are you familiar with our fare?”

“Not really,” Ronderu smirked, “but I can guess. I’ll be sure to curb my expectations.”


	4. Chapter 4

Three Months Later

  
  


“Here she comes.”

“Still no tuugmusme, after all this time? You’d think she’d learn.”

“She _never_ veils herself. It’s unseemly.”

“She’ll never be a wife, looking like that.”

“Well, I suppose she’s not interested in that, is she?”

“Have you seen how much time she spends with the chieftain? Of course she’s _interested_.”

“Do you think she filed her chin tusks and paints the spots with pigment?”

“Hush, she’ll hear you.”

Ronderu heard them all. She heard them every morning when she toted her bucket across the village to the community well where the women gathered. They ducked their heads and dropped their voices to hushed, conspiratorial tones, just loud enough to make clear the subject of their disdain. She heard them every week when the men set out on a hunt and drew their kuunsi pointedly away from her approach, muttering suspicions underneath their bonemasks. She heard them when she crossed paths with children at play and they scattered before her, darting fearful whispers at one another, stressing what might happen should the Kummar of Grendaju catch them.

She was used to such reactions. They came with her name, fueled her reputation, made it easier to leave behind the communities to which she pledged her services. The chieftains, horde-leaders and Khans valued her talents too well to concern themselves with how she had claimed her earned name; they saw a useful tool, a formidable, capable means to an end. But the same name that secured her the respect of leaders afforded her little trust from their people. And that was fine. No need for complications. She hadn’t become a sellsword to forge bonds with those she served and fought for. By all accounts, it was unwise of her to even consider such a possibility as fellowship, given her vocation’s flexible definition of loyalty. Her regard for these people amounted to nothing more than renumerative allegiance. Let them gossip. She had what she needed from them.

So, when she drew up alongside the women at the well, Ronderu did what she always did when she overheard them and wanted them to know it: she turned her unveiled face, peeled back her lips, and met their scandalized glares with a wide grin.

Back in the hut Sheelal had bestowed on her, she portioned out her supply for the day, filling her waterskin and pouring a significant measure into the cooking pot for later use. The remainder she dumped into the washbasin, which she used to splash a bit of the earth-stale water on her face. The wells of the steppes paled in comparison to fresh mountain springs, but given the blistering climate, she supposed she should be lucky to have regular water at all, even if rationed. 

For a moment, Ronderu peered down at her quivering reflection in the basin. The villager women’s words echoed in the back of her mind, unexpected and unbidden. She scowled. They could take their tuugmusmal and stuff them down their throats. What use did she have for their pretty little veils when she had carved her own bonemask nearly a decade ago? Nothing they said could touch her. What did they matter?

She soaked a cloth in the basin and scrubbed her face with great vigor.

Minutes later, fully dressed in her leathers, kakmusme hanging from her hip, Lig swords crossed at her back, she pounded on the door to one of the more extravagantly decorated huts in the village. Receiving no response—and hardly waiting for one—she shouldered the door open and strolled inside.

A _thud_ wrested Qymaen from his slumber, giving him just enough time to sit groggily upright before the hanging cloth in his doorway flung aside to admit Ronderu. Suddenly quite awake, he scrambled in a flustered flurry of furs and hides to cover himself.

“What are you doing in here?! Knock first!”

“I _did_. Why are you still sleeping?” Ronderu strode to the window and threw open the curtains, flooding Qymaen’s quarters with sunlight.

“You’re early,” he groused.

“I was bored. Come on, let’s go train.” She stooped to grab a wayward cushion and chucked it at Qymaen before realizing he was busy rubbing his eyes. It struck him in the face. She cackled. “Get up, you lazy slug!”

He snatched up the cushion and tossed it aside. “Fine, fine! Wait outside, will you? And I mean _outside_ , not—”

Ronderu had already left the room. Heaving a disgruntled sigh, he clambered out of bed and padded out after her into the main hut. He found her there, helping herself to jerky from the drying rack. “By all means, make yourself at home,” he grumbled as he squatted by a chest and unearthed a set of leathers. He clothed himself there, apparent modesty forgotten, or perhaps it had only been for show to begin with. He glanced at her once or twice as he folded his tunic around himself and pulled trousers on over his loincloth, but the attention he paid to Ronderu was not reciprocated. Even while she munched brazenly on his food, she kept her back turned to him.

 _Why in the ancestors’ names are you disappointed? You idiot_ , he thought for good measure.

He focused on his wrappings, sitting on the edge of the chest and bowing over his feet. Winding the tough old fabric between his splayed toes was a preferred practice; while some complained that it chafed and ended their wrappings above-heel, Qymaen liked the extra traction it offered. And, he supposed, because he wasn’t as active as other warriors, it didn’t bother him as it bothered them.

“Your village still doesn’t like me much.”

He looked up in surprise. Ronderu hadn’t turned to face him, so he couldn’t see her expression, though she sounded unconcerned. He emulated her. “Hm? Give them time.”

“I’ve been here for three moon cycles,” she said wryly.

“Do you _care_ if they like you?”

She shrugged, her nonchalance so overt as to be put upon. “No. But I hope I’m not—you know—tarnishing _your_ flawless reputation by association.”

Qymaen rolled his eyes. Typical: deflect whatever was bothering her by twisting it into a dig at him. At least he suspected she mocked with fondness, rather than it stemming from a place of jealousy. “How considerate of you,” he replied, again taking her lead and matching her tone. “Well, don’t worry about me. My reputation is almost as unshakable as your confidence in yourself.”

She finally turned to face him, teeth bared in good humor. “Hah! And in both of our cases, deserved.”

He blinked at her compliment, then resumed prepping for the day. Once he had pulled his mass of locked hair into a tail, he stood and retrieved his Lig swords and bonemask from the wall and turned expectantly to Ronderu. “Ready?”

She laughed again. “You’re asking me?”

They went outside of the village to train, by a coppice of spiny bushes where the grasses scattered into open-soil scrubland. There they would spar together, and there, when Ronderu felt it necessary to impart her disappointment with his progress, she would end a sparring session by tripping him into the bushes. Though Qymaen knew his swordsmanship had improved during the past three months under her instruction, he also bore an embarrassing number of itchy scabs where the sharp thorns slipped between his wrappings and pierced his scales. He was determined not to end up in the bushes today.

He didn’t, but only by the grace of Ronderu choosing to trip him in the opposite direction. He dropped in a face-first sprawl, losing his grasp on his swords, and she loomed over him.

“How have you managed to scrape by this war with _no_ melee skills? Have you never met a Huk face-to-face?”

Qymaen rolled onto his elbows, eyes heated and defensive behind his mask. “I don’t let them get that close.”

“You’re hopeless.” Still, she offered him a hand up, hauling him to his feet. “Maybe we should go back to the stances. At this rate I’m going to end up accidentally slicing off something important during one of these sparring sessions.”

“I _know_ I’ve improved.”

“Yes, but…” With no further warning other than her trailing speech, Ronderu stepped swiftly to the side and aimed a light, controlled kick at his stomach. He folded, wheezing, and his knees struck dirt. “You’re still weak,” she said, splaying her hands toward the evidence. “So _puny_ you can’t even take a hit without dropping like one of those little leggy critters you steppes types hunt.” She wiggled her outstretched fingers, derisive. “Skinny arms and legs everywhere. Look, you need to toughen up, and reviewing stances and improving your form will help with that. Or,” she smirked, “do you think me constantly knocking that bony butt of yours to the ground is helpful?”

Growling over the indignity—and thoughtlessly telegraphing his next move—Qymaen pushed up off the ground and leapt forward, hoping to tackle Ronderu head-on. Before he could slam into her torso, he felt claws digging into his sleeves and a jolt as he was lifted off his feet. Her tangled, fanning hair blinded him during a lurching motion that completely shattered his sense of equilibrium until—

WHUMP.

He was on the ground again, this time flat on his aching back. He blinked against disorientation, chasing away bright spots, then winced at a new pressure on his chest. Individual toes curled into his leathers as Ronderu eased more of her weight into her pinning foot. Both of them had managed to keep their bonemasks in place during the tussle, but he saw a frown of disappointment in her withering stare.

“All that lying around with your rifle hasn’t done you any favors. Are you doing the exercises I told you about?”

Qymaen’s glare faltered. “Some of them.”

“So, none.” She sighed and stepped off, allowing him to climb to his feet on his own. “You need to be doing them. You aren’t strong or fast enough right now.”

Qymaen clasped his hands over his sore stomach. A reflex, and further proof of Ronderu’s words. Shameful. He addressed his interlaced fingers and thumbs, sullen and hot with embarrassment. “This is stupid. If I’m so bad at it, then maybe I’m not meant to learn Lig.”

Ronderu’s eyes softened a bit as she watched him, but softness did not enter into her teaching style. She strode forward to clap him encouragingly on the shoulder. “Pah! Don’t talk like that; you sound like a child. You aren’t going to get any better at this if you don’t _work_ for it, Sheelal. If I can learn to be patient and still enough to shoot your stupid slugthrowers, then you can learn how to swing a Lig sword!”

Qymaen lifted a skeptical stare. “But you haven’t been patient or still enough to land a shot on the target yet.”

“A minor detail—which ruins the point of what I’m telling you, so shut up.” Another jovial clap. “Let’s get to those exercises now, all right?”

“Not a _single shot_.”

—

Moons passed. Qymaen and Ronderu taught each other what they knew—he, breath and stillness, she, motion and energy. For every notion they had mastered themselves, they struggled twofold to realize, in every sense of the word, the other’s antithetical talents. As time wore on, however, they began to see what lay buried within their counterpart’s spirits: cores that, with careful ministrations and persistent instruction, they managed to bring to the surface and tend like precious crops. Ronderu possessed a deep well of wisdom from her varied life experiences, and in stilling the surface of her turbulent memories found the patience and focus she needed. Qymaen, meanwhile, had long weathered a storm of emotions, a passionate streak that, channeled properly, served him well in bladed combat.

As they shared and learned, they thrived in other ways—some more expected than others.

Qymaen committed to Ronderu’s exercises and found he’d never felt better. Running left him energized rather than winded. He nurtured lean muscles as he continued to challenge his own strength and stamina. A day came when he, flashing a pleased smirk at his cousin, hoisted a juleem buck over his shoulders with little strain to show for it. Perhaps he wasn’t the mumuu that Zaebar was, but neither would anyone dare call him scrawny any longer—except for Ronderu, who lived to dare, and never stopped her teasing.

Ronderu, who ate alone at the weekly community meal, distancing herself even from where Qymaen and his extended clan kin ate, perhaps out of respect for familial delineations, perhaps due to her stubborn vow of indifference. Ronderu, who stared in bewilderment when one of the villagers approached her during a meal, offered food off their plate, and then sat with her the rest of the evening. Ronderu, telling one of her outlandish stories to a huddle of wide-eyed village children while their parents gazed on, all of them hanging on her every word. Ronderu, cheerfully joking with the warriors before a raid on a Huk settlement to charge them with good spirits before battle.

An unintentional but inevitable side effect of their training and sparring meant that they fought remarkably well together. Rumors began to spread of Chieftain Sheelal’s fierce new lieutenant. Many claimed they didn’t even need a horde at their backs to raid a Huk colony—that when they fought, they were a force of nature, blessed doubly by the ancestors. Few of these rumors reached their ears as the moon cycles passed, but what they did hear greatly amused Ronderu and left Qymaen as incredulous as the day he had learned Chieftain Abvuul of Urukishnugal was aware of his exploits. Incredulous, but gratified. And, with Ronderu perfectly willing to seize upon the rumors and milk them for every drop of their worth in her blithe, boastful way, Qymaen found it was easier to shoulder the mantle of humility.

Yet he couldn’t help but notice that the trade embargo introduced by Urukishnugal seemed to have fallen moot in the face of the effect his exploits had upon his grateful neighbors. He didn’t need to ask for their leniency when Irikuum bartered for the goods Urukishnugal refused to bring them—all the neighboring villages, and so many beyond, came to _him_.

Some even began to offer tribute.

He liked to think he was still humble. He also liked to think about how gratifying it was that countless Kaleesh who lived countless days outside of Irikuum understood the fruits of his labors and respected him for the unparalleled warrior he was.

Well. _Almost_ unparalleled.

The beginning of Ronderu’s eighth month of service marked the most important holiday celebrated on the western continent—the Holy Week of Sudab’a Ud-Imin, the annual pilgrimage to Shrupak Temple, where villages from all across the Ausez Steppes and beyond gathered to give thanks and praise to the ancestors at that holy place.

In Irikuum, where the pilgrimage took days of travel, the festivities began on the eve of the Holy Week. The square was decorated for the festival with traditional clan sigils created from woven grass, bone and pigment, strings of colorfully dyed cloth flags that traced paths from hut to hut, and lanterns of priceless simsu resin—a gift from the mountain city of Sukundar—which blazed with blue spirit flame when burned. Qymaen stood in the village square alongside Malga Shapra, whose outstretched arms were cast in long, dancing shadows by the massive orange pyre, but his attention strayed from the gathered villagers, wandering aside. Ronderu leaned against a hut, arms folded, well away from the crowd and half-shrouded in darkness.

The Malga’s voice rang clear above the crackle of flames and shuffle of anticipation, bringing his speech to its end. “—And so tonight, on the eve of Sudab’a Ud-Imin, we honor the _lives_ of our ancestors—the lives they led, the love they shared—through food and song. Eat, drink, dance, live, love, my brothers and sisters! Ancestors’ blessings!”

“Ancestors’ blessings!” chorused the village in response, and the festivities began in earnest. Music pounded through the evening, matching the intensity of the bonfire’s flames. Clay cups clattered as toasts were lifted to long-dead kin. Qymaen, meanwhile, quickly ducked away and shed his regalia, tossing aside his clan cloak and chieftain’s dulhlava in favor of his more comfortable sleeveless tunic and breeches. For all its ceremonial flair, this was not a night for Chieftain Sheelal. When the time came to make the pilgrimage to Shrupak, he would lead again, but tonight—on the eve of the Holy Week, this one night, a night of revelry—he wanted nothing more than to relax.

In this way, dressed down and resolved to enjoy his holiday, he sidled up to Ronderu, who hadn’t budged from her dark, self-segregated patch of wall.

“You are determined to remain a stranger, aren’t you?”

“I have plenty of friends here, now, thanks.”

“Then why not celebrate with them?”

“I’m not much for parties.”

Qymaen lifted an eyebrow. “That is genuinely shocking.”

“Well,” said Ronderu, clarifying, “religious parties.”

“Ah.” Qymaen’s tone ran dry. “If we were worshipping _you_ , great demigod, would that be more agreeable?”

Anger flashed across Ronderu’s face. “That’s not—!” But for abruptly as it had appeared, the emotion was fleeting, and it vanished with a sigh as she composed herself. “Don’t worry about it, Sheelal. Go enjoy your party. I think I’ll head home.”

Qymaen, still taken aback by her outburst, looked all the more lost at her words. “When you say ‘home’, do you mean…?”

Now she was surprised. “My hut.”

“ _Oh_.” Visible relief sagged his features and his shoulders. “Oh, all right.”

Confusion—and no small amount of embarrassment—swam in the space between them as they stared at one another, trying to decide what to do with this strange conversation. At length, murmuring something that resembled an excuse, Ronderu turned and began to walk away. Qymaen lurched forward, his hand closing around her wrist.

“Wait. Stay and have something to eat, at least.”

Ronderu hesitated, eyes darting to his grip, then back to his oddly plaintive face. “I saw the food. It looked very... _specific_. And ceremonial. I’ve never really practiced Sudab’a Ud-Imin.” A slight smirk. “I wouldn’t know where to start. I’d end up offending your Malga.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed, tugging her toward the leaping fire and carousing voices. “I’ll show you what to eat.”

Qymaen led Ronderu up and down the long table that had been brought out to the square for the holiday feast, pointing out different aspects of Sudab’a Ud-Imin cuisine and explaining their ceremonial significance. She offered an inventive (and rather blasphemous) running commentary counter to his descriptions, occasionally spinning a quip so humorously unexpected it startled a bark of mirth from serious Qymaen. While most villagers were busy celebrating with their own kin, a few glances stole in the direction of their chieftain and the sellsword from Grendaju—some curious, some dubious, all prying. Hushed voices turned inward, speculative and suspicious. If either Qymaen or Ronderu noticed the undue attention, they didn’t acknowledge it, and soon they sat together on a dag-dib patterned rug to enjoy their food, drink ale and watch the spectacle of dancers and musicians circling the great pyre.

“This is delicious,” declared Ronderu, lifting the bowl in her lap. “Dry, but good.”

“It’s dried to represent life where you least expect it—this dry, withered husk, like the desert—but then you taste what’s hidden inside. So sweet and soft.”

“Seriously, where has your village been hiding _fruit_ for the past eight months? Didn’t want to share it with me?”

“We don’t have zuulum most of the year. We only eat it during Sudab’a Ud-Imin,” said Qymaen. “It doesn’t exactly grow on trees, you know.”

Ronderu looked at him.

“Well, yes. It does.” He gestured. “But do you _see_ a lot of trees out here?”

She laughed. “Fair enough! And I thought Grendaju was harsh.”

“Oh? Finally admitting you grew up there?”

“Not admitting anything, Sheelal.”

He twisted to confront her, a retort tipping his good-humored tongue, but he froze mid-motion and glanced up. Ronderu followed his stricken gaze. A young villager woman had approached their rug, a small, slender-boned thing in a yellow skirt, and she hovered over them with an air of shyness, yet with the taut expectancy of a bowstring. Qymaen knew her, of course; one of his childhood playmates. “Dari,” he greeted, brow angled uncertainly.

She held out a hand, palm up. “Chieftain Sheelal, will you dance with me as our ancestors danced before us?”

Qymaen wilted. He brushed off his tunic with small, nervous flaps and glanced at Ronderu. She merely gazed back quizzically. “Ah...um…well.” Corralling his long limbs, he clambered to his feet and took the girl’s hand, feeling nervous heat rise to his cheeks—or perhaps that was the bonfire? “I-I suppose so.”

This tepid response was not quite what Dari has been hoping for. Disappointment clouded her features as she led Qymaen away to the fire, where, together, they joined in the current dance.

Ronderu watched, propping her chin in her hand as only a Kaleesh woman could. Several villagers had paired off for this particular dance, and while there didn’t seem to be any uniformity to the steps and movements from pair to pair, the _point_ of the dance seemed to be about synchronization within said pairs. In this endeavor, Qymaen and the yellow-skirted girl didn’t seem particularly well-coordinated. His dance was increasingly stiff and awkward; she seemed disgruntled. Ronderu chuckled a bit to herself at his obvious misery. Dancing did not appear to be one of his talents.

“You should ask him to dance—he might just faint.”

Ronderu glanced up and over her shoulder, startled. Malga Shapra’s sister stood behind her, eyes sparkling with mischief. Nulahu’s unseen smile was contagious, twisting Ronderu’s mouth into inquisitive delight. “What? Would it make a good joke? What does the dancing mean? Everything seems to have a meaning for this holiday.”

Nulahu put a finger over her veil where her lips would be. “I think it will be funnier if you don’t know. Easier to claim ignorance. Just keep insisting on dancing. He _will_ think you’re joking.”

Ronderu laughed, wistful. “Sounds fun, but what if he actually says yes? I don’t know your dances.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. You two will figure something out.” With that sly pronouncement, Nulahu excused herself, returning to where the rest of her family sat. Ronderu watched her rejoin Malga Shapra on their own ornate rug, the siblings putting their heads together to either share middle-aged wisdom or indulge in gossip. Zaebar sat nearby on his own rug, alone, gazing at the dancers. Ronderu had not grown terribly close to him during her stay in Irikuum, an arrangement both of them were content with, and though she knew his natural countenance skewed grim, she thought he looked particularly dejected tonight. For a moment, she considered going to him with a cheerful word.

But the song ended, drawing her attention to the central fire. While musicians tended to their instruments, dancers parted and dispersed. She spotted Qymaen squeezing his way free of the crowd, sans village girl and wearing a chagrined expression, making his way back to where Ronderu sat. At the last moment, he detoured for the feast table and grabbed a generous handful of zuulum.

“Have fun over there?” Ronderu greeted him when he plopped down on the rug beside her.

He offered a relatively noncommittal “mph”, but the agitated fervor with which he stuffed more of the dried fruit into his mouth suggested he’d prefer not to elaborate.

A new song drummed into action, even more spirited than the last, making Ronderu’s decision easier. She stood, and, moving around in front of him, thrust her hand in Qymaen’s face.

“Chieftain Sheelal, will you dance with me as our ancestors danced before us?”

Qymaen spat fruit everywhere. While Ronderu wiped her hand on her breeches, he gawped up at her with perfectly round, horrified eyes. “Sorry, _what?_ ” he spluttered.

“Let’s dance,” said Ronderu.

Panic-thick pupils darted left and right. “This is a joke, right? Who told you to do this? What did they say? Was it Zaebar?”

It was easy to play dumb. “What’s wrong? I want to dance. That’s what the girl said to you. I figured it was another one of your silly customs.”

“It—it is, but—you see—it’s not just—”

Ronderu grabbed Qymaen’s hand and yanked him to his feet. “Shut up and dance with me, Sheelal.”

Qymaen’s head spun as he found himself hauled once again before the pyre, quite close to the chest-thrumming drums. His heart yet managed to outpace the frenetic rhythm of the music, something he couldn’t imagine would be conducive to dancing—or standing much longer, truth be told—but as he sucked in deep breaths and tried to understand _why_ this had sent him spiraling into such a giddy mess, the grip on his hand tightened. Suddenly he was pulled forward, right into a miasma of now-familiar kuu-lir, and her voice was in his ear, close enough to feel the guilty breath of laughter in her words: “I don’t know what I’m doing, either.”

Then, releasing him, Ronderu stepped back and fell into a Lig stance.

Instinctively, Qymaen matched her, readying himself for an attack with blades that were not there. He blinked.

 _Oh_.

Ronderu grinned and dipped into a flawless zaralul, pretending to dodge an invisible blow before, rather than pivoting and lashing out with a sword, she did so with her leg. Her foot skimmed past his nose.

He was already moving in concert—not with another zaralul, which would be a stupid response in an actual Lig match, but with mir-giri. He didn’t move as well as Ronderu, but before her teachings, he would have never had the strength to support his weight with one hand.

They both landed in the same stance. No communication was necessary to coordinate their movements. They had been sparring together too long for words, as if they’d been sparring for years instead of months.

And that’s all it was, Qymaen realized. Another sparring session. Ronderu surely didn’t know what asking him to dance had meant. She didn’t know anything about their dances. It meant nothing.

But _this_ —this, they _both_ knew well, and held all the meaning in the world. There was still rhythm and harmony, a trading of kinetic energy that passed fluidly from one to the other without ever a need to touch, and—by all the gods and ancestors—it was _theirs_. He felt the eyes of the village on the pair of them as they continued to duck, weave, flip and feint, but all he could see was Ronderu, wreathed in flames and as ever in that uncontrollable hair of hers, grinning fiercely. He was grinning, too.

He knew the dances, even if Ronderu did not, and he could hear the song building to a climax. He tailored his movements accordingly, and she followed his lead. On the final, crashing drumbeat, Qymaen and Ronderu slammed back to back, hands clenched at their sides as if around their swords, chests heaving.

The usual commotion of hooting and hollering concluded the music, though perhaps louder and charged with more emotion than was typical. Qymaen, his skin still buzzing with the thrill of what had just happened, blinked around and saw that the other dancers and musicians had given himself and Ronderu a wide berth, a loose ring to allow them the room they had needed. He was glad of the space now, overheated from the fire and the exertion as he was; he didn’t need the press of bodies around him to see how he trembled and panted.

And then there she was, spinning him round to face her, gripping his shoulders as much to steady him as herself, her own body shaking with residual giggles. “Okay—I didn’t—expect that,” she managed to gasp out.

It was exactly like the aftermath of a battle rush: the pulse-blazing energy blurring into a deep purr that threatened to swallow him up and lull him into slumber. He put his own hands on Ronderu’s shoulders, and that helped to ground him. He finally found his voice again, cracked, thirsty and faltering, but warm with genuine happiness. “Ancestors _above_ , that...that was…”

There was a shout. Not joyful, but sharp with warning.

Qymaen might as well have been doused with a bucket of water. He wheeled in the direction of the shout, toward the spreading wave of consternation that rippled through the crowd. Ronderu, already hissing bitter oaths, did the same.

Instead of the expected roar of starship engines, they heard hoofbeats. A lone rider crossed the eastern threshold of the village, pelting toward the center square of Irikuum. As they entered the orange wash of light from the bonfire, their simple but bright robes gleamed—the garb of a Laegar.

“A temple servant?” Qymaen muttered, feet already carrying him forward. “But why?”

Ronderu fell into step behind him. “Where’s the nearest temple?”

The temple servant did not so much dismount as topple off of their kuunsi, almost directly into the waiting arms of several concerned villagers. Someone had offered their cup to the Laegar by the time Qymaen split the throng of onlookers and pressed into their midst, bringing with him the authority he’d hoped to shed at the beginning of the evening with his regalia. “What’s going on?” he demanded. “What brings you to Irikuum, Laegar?”

Ale did not quench as water did, but the Laegar drank gratefully as a pair of villagers supported their visitor’s listless weight. Weary eyes lifted and sought Qymaen. “Is this—is this the village of—Qymaen jai Sheelal?”

There it was again; how many times did it have to happen before he would ever grow used to it? Shock and pleasure tingled in his chest. “You’re looking for me?”

“You must help us. You must defend Shrupak Temple. They...the invaders…!”

The pleasure evaporated in an instant, horror carving a gaping, sickening hole in its place. “The Huk are attacking _Shrupak?_ ” Around him, villagers echoed his dismay with gasps and quiet wails. Even Ronderu grabbed his shoulder, claws pinching.

“Not yet,” the Laegar hastened to explain, though this did little to alleviate the collective outrage of the villagers. “A slave managed to escape one of their colonies, and came straight to Shrupak to warn us. The invaders are waiting until the Holy Day of Sudab’a Ud-Imin, when so many villages will be gathered there.”

“If this is true, this may be the largest single onslaught by the Huk since their initial invasion of Sheriga,” spoke up Malga Shapra, who stood nearby, his expression grave.

“They plan to kill and enslave as many of us as possible.” The Laegar turned again to Qymaen, imploring. “Please. You have to help us. The pilgrimage will have already begun; we can’t stop everyone from coming. And even if we manage to keep many pilgrims from traveling to Shrupak, we can’t stop the invaders from attacking the temple itself. That is their plan. They are bringing new starships to Kalee. Bigger starships. They will use them to destroy Shrupak Temple.”

Everything clenched—fists, jaw and throat. “I won’t let that happen,” Qymaen gritted out.

“Neither will I,” said Ronderu, standing at his side, turning several heads and drawing surprised glances. But Qymaen didn’t bat an eye. She had been standing by his side for months, now, in every way that measured and mattered. Of course she would be there.

He stood straight, stretching his heels, and all attention swung to him. This was not just a matter to be resolved by Chieftain Sheelal, but by a horde-leader, a great warrior who commanded as well as he fought. He was ready for this, and his voice was strong and clear. “I need every warrior and able-bodied villager of age to join me at Shrupak Temple. We will ride tonight. Send word by tumu to the warriors of my horde, and to as many villages as we know of. Call my horde to action; tell the rest not to make the pilgrimage.” A fierce snarl colored his words as his pulse quickened with blood-boiled passion. “The Huk think they can bring us down on our holiest of weeks— _we will honor our ancestors in their slaughter!_ ”

Irikuum’s rallying cry resounded through the valley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks until the next chapter (and possibly will have to do 2 wks for the next chapter or two after that); have had some IRL stuff come up that demands my attention, and I will need a little breathing room during the next month or so! :')


	5. Chapter 5

47 BBY

Year Fifteen of the Huk War

  
  


Dawn broke over Shrupak, a spill of warm light that spread across the calm waters of the Bay of Ublilla, stretching golden fingers toward the great stone pyramid that loomed like a small mountain over the rest of the holy complex. The pyramid cast long shadows over the maze of streets below, the cool air infused with the salted soak of ocean breezes rolling inland from the Jenuwaa Sea. Holy men, temple servants and temple guardians stirred and began their daily routines, their rituals, their rounds, heads craning nervously toward the sky and turning hopefully to the west.

Only a few days remained before the Holy Day of Sudab’a Ud-Imin, when pilgrims from all corners of the continent would congregate at Shrupak Temple. A few days before the Huk intended to make their move and bring ruin to the holy site.

And, on this morning, when the watchful Ennuru stationed at the western gates sent up a cry of relief, it seemed the ancestors had heard their prayers. A cloud of dust crested the horizon, angling for Shrupak, growing larger with each passing minute.

A delegation of Laegar and Ennuru congregated at the western end of the Shrupak complex, watching the horde of Kaleesh warriors approach on kuunsi-back. As the swarm slowed some distance outside of the city, a lone warrior rode out in front of the cavalry, his pale, sand-dusted clan cloak whipping behind him as he drew near. A handful of anxious Laegar moved beyond the gates to meet with the rider as he brought his kuunsi to a halt and peered down at them through his painted kakmusme.

“I am Qymaen jai Sheelal, Chieftain of Irikuum, leader of this horde,” he introduced himself curtly. “I received your message and have brought reinforcements. We rode for three days with little rest that we would arrive in time.”

A weak-tusked Laegar with a reedy voice stepped forward and bowed with visible relief. “Thank all the ancestors for your swift response and safe arrival. Malga Bolek is conducting the morning blessing at the moment, but he will be free within the hour to meet with you.”

“I was wondering—may I speak with the one who escaped enslavement and told us of the Huk’s plan? Are they still here?”

“Oh, yes,” said the Laegar earnestly. “She is staying in one of the pilgrim chambers. We will gladly show you the way.”

Qymaen lifted a hand. Two other riders peeled from the rest of the horde and trotted forward on their mounts—one whose kakmusme bore the same clan sigil as his own, the other whose mane of hair fell in waves around her tattered, blood-red cape. “Zaebar, do you think you could go meet with the High Malga and let him know we are here? And Ronderu, would you come with me to meet the former slave who warned us of this assault?”

Soon, Qymaen and Ronderu were being led through the city on foot by a pair of Ennuru, their mounts left behind with the rest of the horde. Shrupak was well-equipped to accommodate a great number of travelers, given the sheer influx of pilgrims they saw annually during the Holy Week, with long, peripheral stables and numerous lodgings dispersed throughout the temple complex. Pilgrim chambers nearer to the temple itself were highly desirable, and it spoke to the holy mens’ gratitude toward the escaped slave in question that she had been put up nearly at the base of the pyramid. Qymaen had made the pilgrimage himself every year since he’d come of age, but for Ronderu Shrupak was a novel sight, and she squinted with appreciation up toward the apex of the pyramid.

“This is the largest temple in the world, isn’t it?” she commented. “Even bigger than the ones in Urukishnugal or Kaleela.”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Qymaen, distracted as he scanned the streets for patrolling temple guardians. “I’ve never been to Urukishnugal or Kaleela.”

“It’s definitely bigger. Oh, and Abesmi doesn’t count. You’d know what I mean if you ever saw it. I’ve told you about the time we sailed to Abesmi, haven’t I?”

“How many Ennuru serve at Shrupak?” Qymaen asked the pair who guided them.

“Two score.”

“That’s _all?_ ”

The two guardians slowed their pace and frowned backward at the young chieftain, knuckles clenching defensively around the shafts of their shoni spears. “We are here to protect the tombs and shrines from defilers and thieves, and to maintain order at the time of the pilgrimage. Few dare to plunder such a holy place as Shrupak, and most pilgrims seek themselves to keep the peace during the Holy Week. Why _should_ there be more of us?”

Qymaen bit his tongue. The Ennuru had a point. It hadn’t occurred to anyone that more guardians—let alone proper warriors—ought to be stationed at the holy site for _years_ of active rebellion against the Huk. He couldn’t entirely fault the people of Shrupak for their complacency. As far as he knew, there hadn’t been a threat as dire as this upon the site until now. Instead, he chewed the inside of his cheek before, politely, addressing the Ennuru. “There are as many of you as Shrupak needs. I hope you will fight alongside my horde when the Huk send their forces against us.”

“It is our _duty_ to protect Shrupak, Chieftain Sheelal.”

Ronderu fell into step alongside Qymaen, leaning close to his ear. “I think you offended them.”

“It’s fine.”

“You’re supposed to be good at this.”

“It’s _fine_.”

“We’re here.” While both Qymaen and Ronderu were startled from their whispered exchange, one of the Ennuru led the way to the facade of one of several identical mudbrick structures, all arranged in rows on the eastern side of the pyramid’s base. Here there were planted trees interspersed between the pilgrim chambers, more lush and healthy than the spindly bushes of the steppes, fed better by the temperate clime and moisture-rich soil of the continental coast. The sun cast shivering shadows through their leaves as the Ennuru knocked upon the wooden door. “Jindra? You have visitors.”

The door cracked open and a thin face peered through the opening. After a moment of apprehensive scrutiny, she stood back and held the door for her guests.

She was no younger than Qymaen, no older than Ronderu. She wore a simple dress, likely provided by the people of Shrupak, its patterns more evocative of holy imagery than of any Clan- or region-linked significance Qymaen was familiar with. She wore no veil; former slaves tended to fall out of that custom. She looked much like the slaves he had freed before—starved and hollow, dark hair cropped quite short, a perfect semicircle cut into the cartilage of her left ear, and, as upsetting to see as it ever was, her mandibular tusks sanded down almost flat to the flesh of her jaw.

The Ennuru remained outside as Qymaen and Ronderu crossed the threshold of the ex-slave’s quarters. Pilgrim chambers were pleasant if understated affairs, and this one was no different. Beyond the bed, the washbasin and the table and chairs, the only touch of decor to suggest this chamber housed someone special was the ceramic pot of kuninda blossoms on the table. Qymaen couldn’t remember any flowers from his previous sojourns at Shrupak outside of those left in offerings upon shrines. 

Once the door had been closed behind them, he removed his kakmusme for a less intimidating greeting and offered a bow to their host. “I am Qymaen jai Sheelal, chieftain of my village, and this is my compatriot, Ronderu lij Kummar. We have traveled from the Ausez Steppes with many warriors to help defend Shrupak.”

She sat at the table, claiming the seat nearest the window. “I-I am Jindra nal Kuuzu,” she said after a moment, a natural—or perhaps unnatural—tremor running through her quiet voice. “I hope you brought enough men.”

Ronderu followed Qymaen’s lead and clipped her bonemask to her belt, rallying with a friendly grin. “Even better—we brought _me_.”

Jindra blinked, the corners of her lips turning up in tentative amusement. “The Yam’rii won’t know what hit them.”

Qymaen eased down at the table across from Jindra, followed by Ronderu. “I was hoping you could tell me in more detail what you know about the Huk’s plans to attack this temple. If that’s all right with you,” he added, reeling in his earnest interest. He had spoken with former slaves many times before; he knew how fragile their experiences often left them, and didn’t wish to make this woman uncomfortable. Former slaves reminded him a bit of juleem—too meek, too alert, too _hunted_ —a realization that filled him with no small amount of seething, simmering loathing for the monsters responsible for so thoroughly crushing the spirits of proud Kaleesh. They would _pay_.

Ronderu, whose relationship with tact was perfunctory at best, dropped her elbows on the table and blurted, “How did you _escape?_ ”

Qymaen shot Ronderu a reproachful look, but Jindra responded to Ronderu’s frankness with a shy, quizzical smile. “It has been a long time coming. I’ve been…” She corrected herself with a flinch. “I...I _had_ been enslaved by the Huk for just over six years, and…” Her smile tensed, growing bitter as she reached and began fiddling with the flowers with busy, nervous fingers. “Well, I didn’t consider myself fortunate at the time, but now I see how...how lucky I was to have been taken back to one of their primary colony worlds—the one they call Tovarskl—to serve them there.”

“Lucky? How?” asked Ronderu, flummoxed.

“Immersion,” said Qymaen without missing a beat. He hid his shock well; he had never met a slave that had survived _offworld_ , let alone for so many years, and yet managed to escape.

Jindra nodded at his shrewd assessment. “Yes. The Huk are very well-established on Tovarskl; it’s almost a second home planet to them. I was immersed in much of their culture and, more importantly, their technology, even if they never bothered to teach it to me. I-I’m sure you know how little they think of us. But I taught myself what I could, and it was enough that when my masters were visiting the primary colony here on Kalee, I...I used it against them to buy me enough time to escape.” Her rather ghostly smile slid into something resembling satisfaction as she twirled the flower stems between her blunted claws. “They underestimated _this_ slave.”

“Sounds like it,” said Ronderu with an approving smirk. “So, are you a warrior, as well?”

Jindra shook her head rapidly. “Oh, no. Not a warrior. But I do know how to use their blasters. I even took one with me when I escaped.” She gestured toward the bed, where a sliver of metal gleamed from beneath the down-stuffed pillow. “A...a memento.”

“Perhaps you aren’t a warrior,” said Qymaen kindly, “but judging by your story you have the soul of one, nonetheless.”

Jindra stopped fussing with the flower stems and blinked weary eyes. “Th-thank you, Chieftain Sheelal.”

Liberated slaves had a tendency to cling to him like imprinted younglings, a development Qymaen found more disconcerting than flattering under the circumstances. He cleared his throat and pressed on in a hurry, bringing businesslike focus to their conversation lest he make such an impression on her. “Your masters were visiting the primary Huk colony. They discussed an assault on Shrupak?”

Taking his cue, her own words came briskly, with less halting and stammering. “Yes. They spoke fairly freely around me; I don’t think they knew how much I listened and understood. So far, the Huk have not dedicated too many of their larger starships to the colonization of our planet. Mostly they use small shuttles and fighters for transport and intimidation, and larger shuttles for taking slaves offworld or bringing immigrants planetside. But it sounds like the governors of their colonies are getting frustrated by—” Jindra paused, tilted her head, and opened her palms toward Qymaen and Ronderu. “Well, I assume the efforts of Kaleesh like you two. Warriors of the rebellion. So the Huk leaders have approved of larger, more dangerous ships to be sent here. My…” Another pause, a brief struggle flickering across her face. “My former masters traveled here to oversee the transfer.”

“Why target Shrupak?” Ronderu wondered. “Why not one of the bigger cities?”

“Sudab’a Ud-Imin,” said Qymaen grimly. “The pilgrimage. Shrupak is practically empty most of the year; not worth much to the Huk. But they must have finally realized when the pilgrimage happens—what it means to us—and if they intend to destroy the temple, they want more than just to capture slaves. They’re sending us a clear message by attacking Shrupak. They hope to break our spirit.”

“Yes.” Jindra lowered her eyes and swallowed obvious discomfort. “The...the Huk don’t bother to understand our ways and customs under most circumstances, but when it comes to learning what to destroy that is of most value to us—they are ruthless.”

“Well, I hate to ask it,” said Ronderu, propping her chin and glancing incredulously between the others, “but how is a horde of Kaleesh warriors on kuunsi-back supposed to battle starships?”

“Do you know how many of these ships we can expect?”

“No more than two, as I understand it. My former masters were complaining about the cost; saying how provisional colonies shouldn’t need such resources to sort out—” Jindra’s expression soured, her lip curling as she quoted “—‘an uprising of savages’.”

“How big are these starships?” asked Ronderu.

Jindra nodded towards Qymaen and Ronderu’s weapons at their backs and hips. “Too big for slugthrowers and Lig swords, that’s for sure. Plus, they’re shielded. These gunships are probably five times the size of the typical shuttles you see. Maybe more.”

Ronderu grimaced. “Even if we had more Huk blasters—which we _don’t_ —those aren’t gonna be enough to take down a ship that size.”

“Not with their ray shields. If...if I had to guess, the only thing on the planet that stands a chance of dealing enough damage is one of their _own_ starships.”

“Urukishnugal has weapons,” Ronderu pointed out. “Probably better than anything you’ll find on the rest of the continent. I mean, sure, they’re not exactly known for their generosity, but—it’s _Shrupak_. We can at least _try_ to reach out to them.”

Qymaen had fallen deep in thought, gaze unfocused as he ran the claw of one thumb over his tusks in an absent, repetitive motion. He jerked to attention at the mention of Urukishnugal, eyes flashing. “Urukishnugal is too far away to bring aid in time,” he said sharply, “and I can guarantee their chieftain is not interested in helping me.”

Though Jindra looked concerned, Ronderu squinted suspiciously at Qymaen. “It’s not about _him_ helping _you_. It’s about protecting Shrupak.”

“He won’t see the difference. Trust me.”

Jindra winced in realization. “O-oh. Is Urash sun Abvuul still their chieftain?”

Qymaen blinked. “He is.”

“Then I think I trust the Sheelal on this one.”

Ronderu shrugged, impatient and frustrated. “Fine! That doesn’t solve our problem, though. We still don’t have what we need to take out these starships!”

Qymaen grew pensive again, his thumb drifting back to his tusks. “That might not be necessarily true.”

Ronderu rolled her eyes. “I know you’re good with your rifle, Sheelal, but you’re not _that_ good.”

“No, I mean...” For a flustered moment he considered dropping it, but for how foolish he felt to bring such a thing up, a stirring insistence in the back of his mind convinced him he couldn’t discount the possibility entirely. His brow furrowed as he plunged into hazy memories and spoke into his knuckle. “Well. There’s a rumor. A legend, really. My father’s elder-mother fought in the Bitthævrian War, and he told me stories when I was young. I’m still not sure what was true and what was fantasy meant to entertain me. After all, according to him, she battled alongside offworlder demigods called Je-dai who wielded flaming swords and controlled the wind itself.” A faint smile danced across his lips as he recollected his old bedtime tales, but he quickly sobered. “After the war ended, the villages returned to their usual hostilities. There is an enemy village some distance from Irikuum, between us and Shrupak, called Adamen. We haven’t fought in years, given the invasion, but neither have we made amends. It was said that the most powerful weapons gifted to the Kaleesh by the offworlders during the war were stolen by the kamen of Adamen and hidden away.”

Ronderu arched one eyebrow. “This village might have a weapons cache? If they’ve had powerful weapons all along, then why haven’t they used them on the Huk?”

“I don’t know that they haven’t. I don’t even know if the village still _exists_ , or if it’s been sacked by the Huk, or if they’ve been holding them off with these weapons. We haven’t heard from them one way or the other. Stupid, really,” he added in a mutter. “There’s no reason we should remain enemies. I should have tried recruiting them with the rest of Irikuum’s neighbors.”

“Did...did your father tell you what sort of offworld weapons they were?” asked Jindra.

The edge of Qymaen’s mouth tugged upward. “Explosive projectiles.”

Jindra echoed his smile, a wan reflection. “Now _those_ might make it through a ray shield.”

“Okay, sure.” Ronderu drummed her fingers on the table in a restless cadence. “It would be fantastic— _if_ it were true, and not a rumor. You can’t hinge an entire battle plan on a rumor, Sheelal.” She spotted his expression and doubled down. “Oh, no. You _can’t_.”

“Not the entire plan,” said Qymaen, trying to force the whining edge of protestation from his voice. “A contingency. What Jindra said a minute ago was a good point—a Huk starship stands a chance at damaging their own. We can focus most of our efforts on gaining control of one of their starships—not necessarily one of the new ships—just a shuttle, as long as it’s armed. We don’t need to _fly_ it; we just need its laser cannons. In the meantime, a small squad can ride to Adamen and see if there is anything to find there. If nothing else, they can form an alliance and bring more warriors.” He glanced out the window at the climbing sun. “If they leave soon, they might be back before the Huk begin their attack.”

“H-how would you take control of a Huk starship?” asked Jindra. “Will they not be in the air?”

Qymaen spoke with calm confidence as he settled into the comfortable role of strategist. Such things came to him so easily it almost seemed to observers that he rambled without much dedicated thought, but Ronderu had witnessed this phenomenon enough times to understand that his mind simply _worked_ that way, his words escaping in a fluid but unrelenting stream of consciousness. “The Huk mean to assault Shrupak, but they aren’t coming to kill every last one of us—enough to make their message clear, yes, but not all of us. They still consider our people too valuable a commodity to kill with abandon, or they wouldn’t still be sending slavers to raid our villages. If the Huk intend to capture even a few of us during this attack, they will not simply lay waste to the complex with their starships. They’ll need men on the ground to weed out potential slaves—they like to capture civilians, not warriors. They’ll need to land those shuttles to drop off soldiers and pick up slaves, and there’s not enough space anywhere in the complex for them to easily do that.” He pivoted his attention to the window again, gesturing as if consulting a map, despite their limited perspective. “There’s only one direction from which they can enter the temple complex on foot. The sea and the cliffs prevent easy access from the north, south and east, so by necessity they will land troops to the west and approach from there. We can position a sizable force at the entrance to Shrupak, but not the entire horde, or they will realize that they _can_ fire their ships upon us and take us all out at once. Warriors, they will kill. We should spread out, force them to do the same when they inevitably penetrate the complex. This is all to buy time for a small detachment to head west and infiltrate a grounded shuttle—or for the other team to return from Adamen with more powerful weapons.”

Ronderu grinned. “Glad one of us has a head for this sort of thing—or at least you’re good at making it _sound_ like you know what you’re doing. Just point me where to fight, Sheelal.”

“Is...is there anything I can do to help?” Jindra ventured timidly. “I know a little about their technology. Their ships. I’ve watched them fly. If you need someone for that mission...I-I could try to be of assistance.”

Qymaen turned to her with gentle regard. “You said yourself you aren’t a warrior. I wouldn’t ask you to put yourself in the middle of a battle, on such a dangerous mission. You’ve already done so much. Your information has been invaluable.”

Her expression sank, but she nodded her understanding. “It’s true. I probably wouldn’t be much help in a fight.”

Ronderu’s elbow dig into Qymaen’s ribs. “What about your special mission to Adamen to find that weapons cache? You might not make it back before the battle begins. Or—you aren’t going, are you? You’ll be here, defending Shrupak with the rest of us, right?”

“Oh, I’ll be here. I was thinking of letting Zaebar lead that mission. He’ll be happy for the responsibility.”

“Pff. He’s never happy.” Ronderu clapped her hand on the table, startling poor Jindra and drawing a pained glance from Qymaen. “Well! Sheelal might not want to ask you, but let _me_ invite you to join us in battle. Bring that blaster you stole, get your own back on them.”

Jindra, though shaken, appeared to appreciate the consideration. “I-I’ll think about it.”

“Your choice!”

Qymaen pushed out his chair with a scrape, clearing his throat, ready to excuse himself. “I should find Zaebar and Malga Bolek and explain what’s happening.” Ronderu also climbed to her feet, reaching out and giving Jindra an overly familiar squeeze of her shoulder, but Qymaen remained reserved. He bowed from a respectful distance. “You have my gratitude, Jindra nal Kuuzu.”

She, too, bowed, though she maintained eye contact throughout, with a bare inclination of her head. He realized belatedly and with a twinge of guilt that she might not be partial to acts of deference, but the moment passed without terrible discomfort. “You’re welcome, Chieftain Sheelal. If you have any more questions about the Huk and their technology, you know where to find me.”

—

When the sun reached shadowless midday, Zaebar and a contingent of a half-dozen warriors gathered at the city’s western gate and prepared for their journey to Adamen. Qymaen saw his cousin off, repeating emphatic instructions.

“If they aren’t willing to part with their weapons, offer them anything. Defending Shrupak is more important than any old vendetta Irikuum and Adamen might have held. It’s stupid and petty. We should have reached out years, _decades_ ago.”

Zaebar swung himself up on his kuunsi and peered dubiously down at his younger cousin. “This is a long shot, Qy.”

“Well, long shots are my specialty. Who knows? Maybe they’ll be happy to help us.”

“Or maybe the Huk have already raided their village and taken the weapons. Or maybe the weapons have been used and have no more ammunition. Or maybe we find the place has been abandoned, and there’s no way of finding the cache without someone to show us. Or maybe we don’t even make it back in time.”

Qymaen huffed through his nostrils. “Maybe _you_ should believe that our ancestors are looking out for us.” He didn’t articulate his own misgivings about the guidance of the ancestors, such as he’d experienced during the course of his life. Zaebar was the nephew of a Malga. _He_ had no excuse.

“We can pray they are.” Zaebar took the reins into his hands, steadying his mount as the kuunsi shuffled impatiently beneath him. His expression was as darkly pessimistic as ever. “I make no promises, but we’ll try to be here on the Holy Day, before the sun is at its height—with or without your weapons.”

Qymaen reached up; his cousin accepted the salute, grasping his forearm. “Thanks, Zaebar. May your mission be a successful one.”

Zaebar flicked the reins, clicked his tongue and sent his kuunsi galloping through the archway, the rest of his men following suit. Qymaen watched until the horizon blurred their parting silhouettes into wavy smears of distant heat.

A few short hours later, he found himself in the chambers of Malga Bolek, the High Malga of Shrupak, discussing battle plans. The Malga resided in an elevated apartment in one of the tallest structures of the temple complex, save for the pyramid itself. Malga Bolek sat by the window, a wizened, tired old man anticipating his fate, while Qymaen paced the quarters with the energy of youth, clan cloak snapping at his heels. Warriors marched in the winding, angular streets below, a sight that left the Malga’s expression grim and his posture slack with resignation.

“Between your horde and our Ennuru, we stand little more than two hundred warriors strong,” sighed the Malga. “I will appeal to the gods and call their blessings down upon us—but I fear even they will have their work cut out for them.” He swiveled in his chair, turning his bleak gaze to the young horde-leader. “Two hundred warriors, Chieftain Sheelal.”

“We _will_ be outnumbered.” Qymaen continued to pace. “I know. Warriors are still arriving from my horde, the ones who come from villages further than Irikuum, but I know it won’t make much of a difference. Not even three hundred, all told.”

“There would normally be thousands of Kaleesh here for Sudab’a Ud-Imin. If the Huk know this, they will send many soldiers with this expectation in mind. They will still find a large number of us—for as many tumu as I sent out to warn villages to stay away this Holy Week, there will be several who fail to receive the message and make the pilgrimage regardless. Pilgrims are already arriving and will continue to do so for the next few days until the Holy Day.”

Qymaen paused in his circuit of the room to scrub at his face with his hands, a frustrated, antsy release of energy. “Yes. I _know_. But some pilgrims are warriors, and those warriors will also join us.”

“There will be many more who cannot fight.”

“We’ll protect them.” Qymaen lowered his hands and leveled an intense, critical look at the Malga. “I shouldn’t have to tell _you_ to have faith, Malga Bolek.” Shouldn’t have to, and yet it was fast becoming a pattern in the span of a single day. Part of him wished he could have one of his dreams, that he might see a potential outcome of the battle ahead. The overwhelming consensus of his racing thoughts, however, was a desperate desire for ignorance. A few hundred ground-bound warriors trying to defend Shrupak from a multitude of Huk and two starships that themselves sounded to be the size of the great pyramid temple? He didn’t want to know what was going to happen. _Gods_ , he didn’t.

Malga Bolek lifted a hand in apologetic surrender. “I have faith you will do everything in your power to serve the ancestors and defend Shrupak. I only hope we will all be ready when the Huk come.”

“As ready as we can be. Hopefully my men will have returned in time with the weapons and reinforcements we need.”

“And if they don’t?” asked the Malga, not challenging, a gentle prompt for recourse.

Qymaen slumped against the nearest wall with a long, slow exhalation, pressing his hand to his head like it pained him. “Then _someone’s_ going to have to capture us a Huk ship.”

—

The morning before the Holy Day, a congregation of warriors from Qymaen’s horde gathered in a communal square of the Shrupak complex, breaking fast. Laegar at several stations served pottage made from barley grains and fish caught in the bay—atypical fare for the Kaleesh who hailed from the steppes, but enthusiastically received in most cases.

Meals represented the rare occasion when warriors could remove their kakmusmal and enjoy the company of their brothers, and this morning was no exception. A particularly boisterous band of warriors had arranged themselves at the base of a large stairway leading from the square to the upper level of the city. They were dressed in warm leathers, flaunting colors and clan sigils from a northern region of the Ausez Steppes, and they traded jokes and stories with the familiar camaraderie of men who had been fighting together for a long time.

“No, I’m serious—I’ve never seen a fish before! Not once in my life. It’s not as if we have a lot of lakes or rivers up in Ninshudari.”

“You know we ate fish yesterday, right? So unless you—do you eat with your eyes _closed_ —”

“ _Food_ doesn’t count, I’m not talking about food! I mean a living, breathing fish.”

“Fish don’t breathe!”

“Hah, see?” A gleeful laugh. “Why should I know that? Never seen one!”

“All right, this is on you. We’re _all_ from Ninshudari, and I’ve definitely seen fish before. I’ve _caught_ fish before. I can’t be the only one. Right?”

There was a sheepish pause.

“Oh, ancestors protect me. You all need to get out more.”

A new voice cut into their conversation, contrastingly formal against the casual cadence of the warriors’ banter. “Which one of you is Amagi din Ku’liana?”

The group jumped to their feet to stand at attention. Qymaen jai Sheelal himself had appeared before them in full regalia, arms crossed over his armored chest, golden eyes peering intently at each nervous warrior in turn.

One of the warriors stepped forward, green-eyed and wiry—incidentally, the man who had laughingly proclaimed his piscine ignorance. Red-brown hair fell in a braid past his waist, and he tossed it over his shoulder alongside his deep blue clan cloak as he offered a smile that was equal parts flustered and friendly. “Hello! That would be me! Wow, not sure we’ve ever spoken before—other than orders, I mean, hah! Sorry. Can I help you with something?”

Qymaen blinked. He supposed he could expect no less from someone named Ku’liana, but it was a bit too much energy and good cheer for such an early hour, let alone the dismal state of mind that had plagued him and only worsened as the Holy Day loomed ever closer. It was enough to trip up the response he’d readied. “Um,” he said instead, drawing a few arched brows before he recovered his poise. “Well, finish your meal first, I suppose. I won’t be far.” He turned, cape fanning. “Come find me when you’re done.”

Amagi spoke quickly. “Or have you eaten yet, Chieftain Sheelal?”

The obvious offer left Qymaen even more at a loss. It didn’t help that he couldn’t actually recall the last time he’d taken a meal. “Well—I—”

Amagi gestured to his brethren, who appeared to be almost as bewildered as Qymaen by this unfolding of events. “Please, eat with us! The warriors of Ninshudari would be glad of your company.”

“Oh, yes, Ninshudari,” said Qymaen, grateful for a talking point. “You haven’t been riding with us long. Maerek is your chieftain, yes?”

“Sure is,” Amagi confirmed brightly. “Sent us along when you put out the call—oh, two or three moon cycles back? It was an absolute _honor_. So of course we came when the tumu flew north with news of Shrupak. Arrived here just last night, eh, boys? But go on!” He flapped his hands in a shooing motion that bemused Qymaen and mortified his comrades. “Get some food, then sit down, join us! You can tell me what you want while we eat.”

Rather at a loss for words, Qymaen wheeled away from the Ninshudari warriors and began ambling for the nearest cooking pot. Before he moved out of earshot, he heard muted, agitated whispering at his back.

“Ku’liana, what are you _thinking?_ ”

“What? He has to eat, just like the rest of us.”

“You don’t—that’s the _Sheelal_.”

“There’s no chance he has time to sit with us.”

“He wanted to speak with me! So he has time for _that_ , doesn’t he?”

By the time he wandered over with his bowl of fish stew (he wasn’t especially fond of fish, but his neglected stomach whined to be filled), the Ninshudari warriors had settled their differences and sprawled back on the steps to continue their meal. While most of them were withdrawn when he picked a stair and sat in their midst, Amagi again greeted him with unprecedented familiarity and wasted no time leading the conversation. Qymaen did not respond in kind, focused on his food and listening quietly as Amagi prattled on, but he realized, all things considered, he appreciated the other man’s conduct. For all his rapport with chieftains and respect he earned as horde-leader among his followers, there were few people Qymaen considered _friends_. Really only Zaebar and Ronderu, when he thought about it: Zaebar was kin, of course, and Ronderu...well, _she_ was a force of nature that would be foolish to deny.

But Zaebar was gone, riding to Adamen. Ronderu was as busy as he was, managing the horde. Qymaen silently, wistfully soaked in Amagi’s affable spirit.

“So!” The word rang out, abrupt as a rifleshot, startling Qymaen into looking up from his meal. Amagi set aside his empty bowl, then leaned forward with his hands braced on his knees. “You sought me out by name, Chieftain Sheelal. Who told you about me?”

“I asked around to see if there were any warriors among us who had experience with Huk weaponry.” As he explained, Qymaen picked at his food, eating his way around most of the fish. He wondered how in the ancestors’ names Amagi had finished his food first when his mouth had been so occupied with talking. “Your name was brought up more than once.”

Amagi’s eyes lit up. “You came to the right person! My father is a blacksmith and my mother an artisan—I grew up working with metal and craft goods alike! One of the first things I did when a Huk left a blaster behind in our town was crack it open to see the inside of it.”

“What did you find?” 

“Hah! Bit like dressing an amsi, actually,” Amagi laughed. “I tore that thing to pieces trying to figure out what was going on in there. And the other blasters, after that. Definitely more complicated than a slugthrower. It’s not something we can make here on Kalee, but at least I think I have a basic understanding of how it works.”

“Perfect,” said Qymaen. “Though what I have in mind is probably more complicated than a blaster.”

“What do you need?”

Qymaen took a deep breath. “We’re going to try and capture a Huk starship. A shuttle. We need someone who stands a chance of _doing_ something with it.”

Amagi’s smile finally faltered as his shoulders drooped. “A shuttle? Phew. I can’t promise I can fly anything.”

“Well, we may not need to fly it. Do you think you could strip it down? Remove its weapons in a way that they’re still usable?”

Amagi winced and shrugged. “Ooh. I can certainly try. But it’ll take time. Will I have any help?”

Qymaen thought of Jindra, her time spent on Tovarskl, her clenched jaw as she described her escape. Despite his reservations dragging a fragile, former slave into battle, as it were, she _had_ offered her knowledge. “I might know someone you can talk to,” he said. “She’s a civilian, not trained in combat. But she’s familiar with Huk technology, and she wants to help however she can. Once we’re finished here, I can introduce you.” He then cast his gaze around at the other Ninshudari warriors, who stiffened at the attention. “And if you all work well together, it _will_ take more than one man to capture a shuttle, especially if they leave someone behind to guard it. Do you think you’re up to the challenge?”

His question was met with cautious enthusiasm that only increased when Amagi rounded eagerly on his comrades, demanding, “What do you think, boys? Rip apart a starship from the inside out? Sounds fun to me!”

“This will need to happen during the attack,” Qymaen clarified. “They’ll likely land several shuttles outside the city before focusing on our main force, giving you the opportunity to slip in close and undetected.”

“Shouldn’t be too difficult. I think the hard part comes _after_ we capture the starship.”

“All we need are its weapons. Just one laser cannon. Whether you can remove it from the ship and still use it—or if you can figure out how to shoot using the starship controls—we _need_ that firepower.” Qymaen realized he was gripping his wooden spoon so tightly his knuckles ached, and forced himself to relax with a taut sigh. “It may be the only way we can take out their gunships.”

“About those gunships,” Amagi said quizzically, “if we’re trying to capture a ship, why not one of those?”

Qymaen barked out a cynical laugh before he could stop the sound from escaping. “We can’t hope they’ll risk having those ships on the ground long enough for us to get _remotely_ close. More likely those ships are here for intimidation, and destruction once the Huk have captured as many slaves as they desire. I’m sure they’ll stay in the air.”

“Well, who knows?” Amagi stretched his limbs in a full-body shrug and rolled a cheeky smile Qymaen’s way. “If we steal a shuttle and manage to fly it, maybe then we can use _it_ to capture a gunship! Hah!”

It was simply so absurd Qymaen couldn’t help returning the smile, even if it was subdued and rather scornful by comparison. “I don’t think there are enough ancestors in the history of Kalee to bless us with that much good fortune.”

“Just the shuttle, then, eh?”

“Just the shuttle.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Admittedly a bit of an odd chapter! The calm before the storm, perhaps? Stay tuned for the Battle of Shrupak...which may be next week, because I'll be moving house the week after that and will ~probably~ not be posting then!


	6. Chapter 6

47 BBY

The Battle of Shrupak

  
  


The atmosphere hung hot and heavy over Shrupak at the height of the Holy Day of Sudab’a Ud-Imin. It ought to have been a day of prayer and reverence—as the High Malga conducted ceremonies and dispensed blessings atop the great pyramid during all hours of the day—as clan kin visited the shrines and tombs of ancestors past within the temple, paying their respects and leaving offerings of weapons, silks, simsu resin and kuninda flowers. Instead, the tense promise of war knotted every corner of the city, tightening like a rope around Shrupak’s throat. The only thing Malga Bolek had been permitted to do before he was ushered into hiding was dispense a mass battle blessing to the nearly three hundred warriors present. Qymaen’s horde and the Ennuru divided themselves across the complex, small squads positioning at key points to protect the civilians and pilgrims who had hidden away for safety, and larger troops staggered from the temple all the way up through the western gates to the city. Many were stationed atop the outer walls, armed with long-range Czerka rifles, the occasional Huk blaster and bows that fired arrows tipped with the end of a shoni fish’s knife-sharp beak and dipped in paralyzing zkakua.

Qymaen himself perched on the ramparts with the archers and snipers, standing apart from the rank and file, his dulhlava and striking clan cloak billowing in the altitude, eyes glued to the horizon.

There was a glint in the heat-hazy sky.

At the base of the temple, Ronderu craned her neck and gripped the hilts of her Lig swords. “Here we go,” she muttered.

A dozen Huk starships descended. These were not the compact shuttles they sent along for slave raids on small villages, but their more expansive models, less streamlined, dropping heavily to the ground a kilometer away and belching a swarm of enemies—perhaps three times as many as could comfortably fit inside the smaller shuttles, with room to spare for captured Kaleesh—until several hundred Huk soldiers amassed in the grassy fields outside Shrupak.

This sight alone swept an uneasy shuffle through the Kaleesh warriors. Toes dug into dirt, claws bore into spear shafts and bow grips, dry throats swallowed lumps of dread. On reflex, Qymaen flung out one steady hand at waist-height, as if trying to stabilize his shaken horde through sheer force of will. Then his eyes flicked upward again, and widened.

Two immense shadows blotted out the sun. At first, Qymaen simply couldn’t process what he was seeing; something so large had no right to hang in the sky like a bird, no more than a _mountain_ should be able to suspend itself in the air. But they were there—two of them—dwarfing the shuttles as a full-grown mumuu bull eclipsed a newborn juleem, hulking, insectoid vessels that roared with blue flame at one end and bristled with the biggest laser cannons he had ever seen at the other. They joined the shuttles briefly on the ground, and with a hot flash of regret Qymaen recalled his conversation with Amagi and wondered if he’d miscalculated. But the gunships began depositing hundreds more soldiers from yawning mouths and down the rigid tongues of boarding ramps, convincing him he’d made the right call. Tempting targets though the ships presented, it would have been suicide to send his tiny horde outside of the city to meet them. Best to remain defensive, to draw the Huk in. Soon, the huge gunships lifted back into the air and rolled directly over the entrance to Shrupak. There they loomed, a dark, unnerving presence as ominous as stormclouds. Qymaen couldn’t help but liken the viewports at the front of the ships to eyes. Attentive, hungry eyes. Hunting beasts sizing up their prey.

He felt another ripple of fear sweep through his warriors on the wall and beyond, and even as he stared up into those hollow, slick-black eyes and felt his spine seize with a foreboding, he knew he couldn’t let their resolve fail before the fight even began. Summoning a deep growl from his chest, he repeated his gesture from earlier with more intensity and snarled out, “ _Hold!_ ”

Around him, shoulders squared and tusks lifted with emboldened murmurs. No one _ran_ , at least.

 _Gods, what I wouldn’t do for a few of the Huk’s blaster turrets right about now_.

—

Just outside of Shrupak, huddled by a cluster of boulders equidistant to the gate and to the swarm of Huk but not in a direct line, the warriors of Ninshudari steeled themselves for their mission. Amagi, weighed down by a leather satchel filled with an assortment of crafting and smithing tools, gaped up at the gunships.

“I...I think I see why we’re trying to capture a shuttle, now,” he said, a nervous laugh squeezing through his throat.

“Ku’liana,” said one of the other warriors tersely, “someone’s approaching.”

Amagi followed the pointing finger. Sure enough, a warrior in unfamiliar leathers had slipped out of the temple complex and was jogging toward Amagi’s detachment, keeping their profile low in the tall grass. As they drew near, however, the Ninshudari warriors realized the newcomer was not wearing a bonemask, but a woman’s veil. A Huk blaster was lashed at their hip. 

“What’s going on?” Amagi called out in a whisper as the new warrior closed the distance and ducked behind the cover of the boulders. “Do you bring news from Chieftain Sheelal? Or...wait…” He pushed up his amsi kakmusme to reveal a baffled expression. “ _Jindra nal Kuuzu?_ Is that you? What in the ancestors’ names are you doing here?”

“Capturing a shuttle,” she replied.

“Since _when?_ ”

“I’ll be more helpful here than cooped up with the rest of the civilians.” She took in his mortification and held his gaze with pleading eyes. “Please. I-I know it’s dangerous, but the Kummar told me I could fight if I chose to. I _choose_ to do this.”

Amagi balked. Chieftain Sheelal had led him to Jindra’s quarters shortly after breakfast the day prior, and they had spoken for hours about the mechanisms and energies behind Huk technology and weaponry. In spite of the dire exigency of their collaboration, it had been an enjoyable conversation. Both of them had naturally amiable personalities, and clever minds to complement one another, even if Jindra skewed timid against Amagi’s exuberance. They discussed the function and uses of electricity, plasma and ion energy; she taught him a handful of words in the Huk language for concepts the Kaleesh had barely begun to understand, such as “deflector shield” and “hyperdrive”; and, working together to draft a crude diagram, she walked him through the interior and exterior of a standard Huk shuttle that he might have an easier time finding what he needed. Neither of them, as it turned out, had ever met another Kaleesh with such interest in these offworld notions—Jindra, with her wealth of knowledge from years of exposure to Huk society, and Amagi, who possessed an insatiable curiosity and quick grasp of all things mechanical.

He’d been delighted and impressed. He also worried terribly that something might happen to her during the battle for Shrupak—that she might find herself dragged back to the same horrible life she’d so recently clawed her way free of—and seeing her here, rather than safely hidden out of harm’s way, did _nothing_ for his nerves.

He glanced at his men for help. They offered blank stares and hopeless shrugs. “I would hate to see you get hurt,” he finally said, concern creasing his brow.

“I would hate to get hurt, too, but...I think that’s one of the many hazards of war, isn’t it?”

Her humor caught him off guard—as it had the previous day—and he swallowed a startled laugh. Her hopeful eyes lit up at the sight of his smile, and he knew he couldn’t turn her away. “Well,” he sighed, “as much as I appreciate everything you already told me, I can’t deny it’d be better if you were there with me. Just...please be careful, all right?”

Beneath her veil, she adopted a brave smile of her own. “ _You_ just tell me what to do until we get to the shuttle. I’ll take over from there.”

“ _Oho_ , I see how it is.”

During this exchange, the other Ninshudari warriors spent much of the time gazing anxiously up at the gunships. “Why aren’t they firing?” wondered one. “They could bombard the complex and kill everyone right now.”

“They want to capture as many of our people as possible,” said Jindra grimly. “We are still more valuable to them alive than dead. I’m sure they’ll wait until they’ve taken some of us before they start using those gunships.”

“Which means we need to act now, eh?” Amagi slid his kakmusme on and shouldered his toolbag. “Stay low. Wait until they’ve moved in on the gates. Then let’s go grab us a Huk shuttle.”

—

Qymaen squinted through the scope of his rifle, sweeping up and down the length of the gunships to take in every pertinent detail he could make out. He focused on the multiple turrets, the flaming engine, the vast underbelly that shimmered strangely in his sights, and, of course, the _eyes_ —which, now that he had the benefit of magnification, he could see through into a nebulous bridge manned by murky, spindly shapes. Filing away potential weak points—should they manage to obtain a weapon capable of penetrating the shields Jindra had described—he lowered his weapon to scan the wall of advancing Huk crossing the field on foot. So far, his predictions held true: the Huk had been forced to land somewhere other than Shrupak’s winding streets or the narrow strip of rocky beaches that separated the city from the Bay of Ublilla, and the two gunships hung over it all, passive and waiting for the time being, a pair of sinister sentinels. It was not an encouraging sight, the march of enemies that outnumbered his horde and the temple Ennuru four to one. Not as many Huk as he’d worried—but, now that he saw the gunships, he understood why the Huk had not felt it necessary to send more soldiers.

He lowered his weapon and raised one hand over his head. Sniper rifles propped on the ramparts and shoni arrows nocked in a bustle of noise and activity that quickly deadened. Warriors stilled, braced, and waited.

Qymaen sliced his hand down in a sharp arc. “ _Fire_.”

A series of chemical explosions erupted from the outer wall as dozens of slugthrowers fired. The front line of Huk was close enough that Qymaen could see them without the aid of his scope, and he watched with satisfaction as several Huk were felled in an instant as others stuttered in their skittering advance and looked around in consternation.

He didn’t see a Huk snarl an order into a comlink.

One of the gunships above stirred to life, slowly angling for a better view of the western walls of the complex. Its laser cannons swiveled and pointed downward.

Qymaen felt the movement before he saw it, along with a sickening wave that swept dread from his stomach to his throat. In an instant he had his Outland in his hands and up to one eye, aiming at the gunships.

And he saw his miscalculation. A potentially fatal miscalculation.

The Huk were not willing to attack the city itself so early in the battle, not if they wanted to scour Shrupak for more slaves...but the outer wall was some distance from the edge of the complex, not yet overrun by the Huk soldiers. He’d spread his horde and the Ennuru out to make targeting them more difficult, but too many of them were still isolated on that wall. And, by firing first, he had just confirmed to the enemy that the wall was occupied by expendable warriors.

Fair game.

Qymaen was already whirling and running for the back of the wall, for the ladders they had propped to allow them a safe climb down to the ground. “Get off the walls!” he screamed, grabbing handfuls of cloaks and shoving whoever he could reach toward their only chance of escape. “Go! Get down! Get off the walls _now!_ ”

It was less a bombardment than a mere demonstration of power, but the laser cannons of the gunship were far more formidable than those of shuttles, fighters or the mounted turrets Qymaen’s horde had encountered in Huk settlements. The cannons fired only once, an efficient pulse of superheated plasma.

The outer wall exploded in a cloud of smoke, dust, brick and bodies.

Crouched in the long grass, the warriors of Ninshudari gaped at the destruction in horror. “What the—?” Amagi cried out, half-rising before Jindra caught his arm. He sank into cover, still stunned. “But—they shouldn’t be doing that! I thought they wanted to _capture_ us, not massacre us!”

“This isn’t good. Oh, gods. Not good...”

“They only attacked the wall,” observed one of the other warriors.

“Chieftain Sheelal was on the wall!”

“Should we turn back?”

Amagi shook his head, regaining clarity. “No. No, our mission is more important than ever, now. We need to hurry. Come on!”

Back at the great pyramid, shouts of dismay rose from the horde as they watched the gunship unleash its precise fury on the outer wall. The eruption of flame and debris had barely begun to settle before Ronderu, sheathing her swords, whirled to the nearest group of warriors, her eyes flashing dangerously.

“Stay here. You all stick to the plan.”

“What are _you_ doing?” asked a warrior, plaintive.

“I do what I want.” With that, she took off at a sprint, heading for the western end of Shrupak.

Chaos reigned at the city gates. The blast from the single gunship all but leveled a substantial chunk of the outer wall, having blown a messy hole from its upper reaches and thrown the warriors atop it in all directions. Uninjured men below rushed to the sides of fallen comrades, some of whom were lucky enough to find themselves only battered and dazed, while others lost limbs and lives. Warriors shouted, coughed and scrambled through the scorched air and falling dust, too busy trying to regain some form of order to pay much heed to the ever-advancing Huk soldiers.

“Sheelal!”

The voice pulled Qymaen out of blackness. His eyes peeled open, but comprehended nothing.

His legs pumped beneath him as he ran, charging through the streets of Shrupak, looking up at the column of smoke pouring from the attack in the diminishing distance.

“I’m coming!”

Someone was shouting. Was it him?

Shouting and running. He couldn’t feel anything, his body numb and heavy, but still he ran.

“Sheelal, where are you?”

Rubble from the destroyed wall. Panicked warriors hauling brothers to their feet, pulling chunks of stone from crushed bodies, screaming for focus. And a slumped form, half-pinned by debris, wearing tawny and deep-stained leathers with a pale clan cloak, kakmusme scuffed but whole.

 _He ran to himself_.

Mind finally processing what he seemed to be seeing, he immediately, instinctively sought to reject it in the quickest way he could think of: he squeezed his eyes shut, returning to the relative sanity of darkness.

When he dared open his eyes again a moment later, he found he was on the ground, staring up at the sky—at the silhouettes of the two Huk gunships. Sensation returned, and with it a sweep of pain. Sharp, crumbling rock weighed down on his stomach and thighs; his back and head ached; he tasted blood from a bitten tongue; but he was no longer running, no longer shouting, no longer dashing toward the eerie apparition of his own sprawled body.

Wondering if the ancestors had granted him a vision during his waking hours—something that had never happened before, but nothing he would put past them—he found his voice and mumbled to no one, “What just happened?”

But someone answered. “Sheelal!” gasped the voice, _her_ voice, and suddenly she was there, crouching and grabbing his shoulders. “You okay?”

“Ronderu?” Of course it was her. He felt stupid for asking. But his mind was still fogged, likely from his tumble from the outer wall as well as the inexplicable phenomenon he had just experienced.

Her hands scrabbled at the stone and brick that had fallen with him, pawing it off and tossing it aside. “Come on, get up!”

He made no effort to help, far too disoriented to know what to do with his hands at the moment. He stared at them as if seeing them for the first time. “I...I saw the strangest thing…”

“Yeah? Your life flashing before your eyes? Get up, let’s go!” She grabbed his hands and hauled him roughly to his feet. After a brief stumble and a bit too much weight leaned into her supporting grasp, he started snapping his head left and right, taking in the chaos around them, far more alert. Satisfied he was fast recovering, Ronderu let him stand on his own, balling her fists in frustration. “Those stupid ships are already attacking! What are we supposed to do?”

Fully conscious, if a bit sore, Qymaen raised his voice to a bellow to be heard over the commotion around them, addressing his horde. “Spread out! Small groups! Use the buildings for cover; they know our civilians are hiding inside! Once the Huk have breached, stick close to them—they won’t fire on their own soldiers!”

Ronderu gripped his arm. “What about you? Close quarters combat, in a battle this big?” Her eyes darted to his sheathed Lig swords. “You’re better with those than you used to be, but—”

“I’m falling back to the temple,” Qymaen decided, bonemask hiding his somewhat disgruntled expression. She was right. He needed to do what _he_ was best at, and they both knew it. “I’ll head up the pyramid; snipe from there.”

“And what about me?”

“You—you do what you want.”

For a moment she didn’t respond, too taken aback at his oddly familiar phrasing. A coincidence, surely. A _bizarre_ coincidence. But then she grinned under her mask. “You’d better believe I do.”

—

Out in the grassy fields, a dozen Huk shuttles waited in silent rows, seemingly abandoned by the Huk forces that had finally begun to pour through the damaged outer walls of Shrupak. The Ninshudari warriors knew better. Prior experiences with raiders taught them that at least one Huk stayed behind in the shuttle while soldiers razed villages and captured Kaleesh in their electro nets, ready to pilot the ship away at a moment’s notice. These starships were surely not empty.

They singled out a shuttle at the end of one of the rows and approached cautiously, low to the ground, until they huddled at the foot of its extended boarding ramp. Amagi and Jindra exchanged a glance.

“You first,” she conceded. “In case someone’s in the passenger cabin.”

Nodding, Amagi took a deep breath and padded his way up the boarding ramp as quietly as possible, careful to keep the claws of his toes from clicking against metal, the other warriors stealing after him like a shadow. They emerged into—in every sense of the world—an alien space. The warriors had set foot in Huk settlements before, and had marginal familiarity with their cold, rigid, metallic architectural aesthetics, so unlike the organic Kaleesh homes of mudbrick, thatch, hide and stone. The interior of the shuttle was even more uncomfortable to their sensibilities, claustrophobic despite the generous dimensions, a press of humming machinery, artificial lights and stale, tasteless air.

Jindra, on the other hand, had been on starships before. She had a fuller understanding of what she saw—a passenger cabin, with bucket seats lining the walls, storage lockers, narrow viewports and a ladder to a hatch that led to the cockpit above (which, she knew, could also be accessed from outside the shuttle through its hinged, transparisteel canopy).

Amagi, unlike the rest of the Ninshudari warriors, took in his surroundings with an avid glint in his eyes, fingers flexing. “I probably shouldn’t touch anything in here, should I?”

“Ku’liana,” chided one of the warriors quietly.

“Not just yet,” said Jindra.

“But there’s so much to touch.”

“I know.” Jindra squinted at the ladder. “There is probably someone in the cockpit. Technically room for two up there, though I think a single person can both pilot and access the weapons.”

Amagi tore his wistful eyes away from the nearest storage locker and followed Jindra’s gaze. “Hmm...think we could take them hostage? Make _them_ work this thing, so we don’t have to figure it out?”

“Yam’rii, taking orders from Kaleesh? I think they would sooner die,” said Jindra grimly.

“Good point. So would I. Er, other way around. You know what I mean.”

“Then we get the drop on them?” spoke up a warrior.

“Well, if they’d sooner die, we might as well help them out with that, eh?”

In the cockpit, two Yam’rii were cramped into their seats. Even as the fight unfolded before them, as their soldiers passed through the gates of Shrupak, an air of inexpressible boredom hung in the stuffy air between them.

“You know,” said one, speaking the Huk language and sounding quite annoyed, “you _don’t_ have to be in here with me. We’re not leaving anytime soon.”

“We’re supposed to remain at our stations,” said the other. “This is my station. That’s your station. It’s not my fault they both happen to be in the cockpit.”

“Well, as pilot, I’m fairly sure I outrank you. So...go below and wait down there. Away from me.”

“You don’t outrank me. If I go below, it’s because I’m sick of listening to you complain. So…” He rose from his seat and picked his way with long limbs toward the hatch. “I am, so I will.”

The pilot clicked his mandibles irritably. “Yes, go, _please_.”

His comrade bent at the petiole and winched open the hatch as he threw a dirty look over his shoulder. “Don’t come crying to me if something goes—”

The Huk’s head jerked, spraying green from a slug shot through the brain. The other Huk barely had time to snatch for the communication controls before Amagi hauled himself up through the hatch and fired his weapon again. Both Huk collapsed to the floor, dead.

“Got ‘em,” Amagi called down through the hatch. “Here, I’ll pass them down to you. Just put them in a corner somewhere.”

Once the bodies were deposited in the passenger cabin, Jindra followed Amagi up into the cockpit, immediately claiming the pilot’s seat and examining the console before her. Amagi slid tentatively into the gunner station, and they both removed their kakmusmal to give themselves a clearer view of their environment.

“Can you make any sense of all this?” Amagi wondered. “Or should I be heading outside to try and strip the laser cannons off this thing?”

Jindra brushed the console with the tips of her claws, staring intently. “As a matter of fact,” she said, slowly, “I can. No, stay here on the gunner station. I...I know how to contact the gunships. Talk to them directly, I mean.”

“You think we can trick them? Lure them in range? But won’t they be a _bit_ suspicious if they hear Kaleesh?” Amagi perked up. “Wait! You can speak Huk.”

She grimaced. “Not well. It won’t sound very convincing.”

“Maybe if we make it sound like the transmission is failing, you can get away with it!”

“If I’m honest, I...I could possibly fly this thing.”

Amagi swiveled and stared. “Are you serious?”

“B-but if one of their shuttles suddenly takes off,” she fretted, “there are all these other grounded shuttles who will be wondering why. The longer we can keep suspicion off of us, the better.”

“You didn’t tell me you could _fly a starship_. Does Sheelal know?”

Jindra shook her head, balking. “I —I wasn’t expecting to be—I haven’t actually ever—i-it’s not a story we have time for right now. I shouldn’t have said anything. We need to do something before either of the gunships attack again. Reaching out through their comms is less risky and obvious than trying to get this thing in the air. If I don’t do it right—I don’t want to hurt anyone—”

“Fair enough,” said Amagi quickly, heading off her building panic. “Comms it is. See if we can get them to land over here; hard to miss a shot like that!”

“Right. Right. Here goes nothing.”

—

On the bridge of one of the Huk gunships, the crew went about their business with the lazy confidence of a seasoned dejarik player who knew their opponent to be a fumbling newcomer to the game. Only the pilots at their nav consoles seemed to be paying any much mind to what they were doing, while comm officers, gunners and the odd engineer settled and waited, not without impatience, for something to do. One individual stood close to the transparisteel viewport, a particularly large Huk with a stiff posture and high-ranking military bangles, who surveyed the unfolding battle.

A gunner officer spoke up. “Commander, when do we open fire on the pyramid?”

The Huk commander didn’t budge, let alone turn to acknowledge the gunner. “Not until we have confirmation from the ground that we’ve taken enough slaves to justify this ridiculous assault. Who knows how many could be hiding inside that structure?” Venting a sigh of annoyance from his spiracles, he grumbled to himself. “Ridiculous. Demanding we send two _K’tahak_ -class gunships to this backwards planet to clean up this _mess_. Why can’t our colonies handle these savages on their own?”

“Sir?” The comm officer who sat near the back of the bridge had to raise her voice to a nervous shout to be heard. “One of the shuttles is hailing us. They say it’s an emergency.”

The commander finally turned. “What is happening?”

“It...it’s difficult to say. The audio is cutting out, and their holotransceiver doesn’t seem to be working at all. But it almost sounds as if they’re requesting that the gunships...well, land.”

“ _What?_ ”

The comm officer flinched at the spark of temper from her commanding officer, but managed to keep her composure, deftly flipping switches at her workstation. “Th-they’re repeating the message. Let me patch it through.”

The message spluttered through the comm system, broadcasting to the entire bridge, static-laced and garbled.

“Emergency! Please—trap—need help—land your—by shuttles—hurry!”

The commander stalked over to the comm console in question, disgruntled. “Do we know which shuttle the transmission is coming from?”

A holoscreen was pulled up, displaying the rows of shuttles. “That ship, sir, the one on the end. What do we do?”

The commander hovered over the comm officer’s shoulder, glowering. “If those barbarians sabotage our shuttles, we’ll have to land in order to pick up our troops and the slaves,” he muttered. His head snapped up and he pointed at the pilots. “Descend. Prepare to lower shields in case we must land and allow our people aboard. Contact the other gunship; tell them to remain in position. We need to investigate, but remain airborne until we can confirm the situation.”

The bridge crew sprang to their stations, more grateful to have something to do than leery of the circumstances. “Yes, Commander!”

Events may have unfolded differently if one overzealous crew member—perhaps in an ill-conceived effort to please his commander, perhaps simply misunderstanding their orders in his eagerness to give his restless hands purpose—did not prematurely lower the gunship’s deflector shields.

—

The great pyramid temple of Shrupak was said to be the largest on Kalee, at least outside of the rare traveler who claimed to have been to the sacred island of Abesmi (and who swore upon the spirits of their ancestors that the temple there was unlike anything else in the living world). Shrupak Temple was just as holy to the pilgrims who came from all corners of the Ausez Steppes to receive and pay their blessings and, in the case of those who were of such prominent and beloved clans to have earned such an honor, to visit the tombs of their departed kin within the pyramid.

Worn stone steps led the way up each of the four sides to the apex of the temple, the elevated shrine at which blessing ceremonies were conducted by the High Malga. Platforms along each level were lined with entryways that led to torch-lit hallways through which visitors accessed their clan tombs and shrines.

Qymaen had never been inside the temple; the Jai Clan, though respected in Irikuum and only now technically its most prestigious clan, had its mausoleum at the burial grounds on the edge of their village. He had still made the pilgrimage every year since coming of age, as Chieftain of Irikuum, and had attended multiple ceremonies at the summit shrine. He’d never had reason to _stop_ on the stair climb to the top of the pyramid, other than to pause on one of the platforms for a breath and a break for his tired legs.

But now he perched on the second level of the pyramid, a position that granted him a good view of the sprawling complex and the hovering gunships. The ships kept vigil over the battle, biding their time like carrion birds. Qymaen, on the other hand, swapped between his role of observer and active participant. He watched as his increasingly scattered horde forced the Huk to follow their lead, splitting into smaller groups to hunt down what they must have assumed to be easy prey. But his warriors fought fiercely, utilizing their surroundings in ways that their enemies failed to anticipate, laying traps and ambushes around street corners and in building thresholds, leaping walls and scrambling across rooftops to safety with an agility the Huk couldn’t quite match. All the while, Qymaen picked off Huk soldiers with effortless efficiency, falling into a rhythm that could be measured by his very breaths, interrupted every eight shots by the necessity to refresh his rifle with new slugs.

Following one of these pauses to reload, he took a break from his pattern to locate Ronderu, soon spotting her some distance down a street alongside the northern base of the pyramid. He couldn’t help but indulge a moment to admire her mastery of Lig combat. She sliced her way through a handful of Huk soldiers in the span of a few seconds, a grisly, violent dance of flashing blades, green blood and flying limbs.

He was practically smiling to himself when he shifted his attention to the right and, just outside of his crosshairs, he spotted a Huk some meters away from Ronderu, aiming a large blaster at her turned back.

Hot panic seared his throat as he instinctively started to shout out, even though he knew he was too far to be heard over the clamor of the battle. He twitched his rifle further to the right, trying to center the Huk in his sights, but he overcorrected in his haste. The Huk was already squeezing the trigger.

And then, suddenly, a Lig sword buried itself in the Huk’s thorax. The blaster bolt went wild as Ronderu’s would-be attacker collapsed, impaled and dead. Qymaen swung around to find Ronderu, and saw her where she had been moments earlier, arm outstretched, having flung one of her blades at the soldier. As Qymaen watched, she paused and pressed her free hand to her temple, fingers creeping beneath her bonemask as if massaging at a headache.

Then she turned and looked directly up at him, without the slightest bit of hesitation or searching. Through his magnifying scope, he could see the confusion in her eyes.

He returned the stare, equally confused.

Something had _happened_. He didn’t fully understand what it was, but a gripping unease reminded him it had happened earlier, when he’d fallen from the wall. He realized a moment later: it was similar to the sort of feeling he had when he woke from one of his dreams.

But, unlike his bizarre experience at the wall, he hadn’t seen anything this time. So what _had_ happened?

Within seconds, however, Ronderu seemed to recover from her momentary lapse and sprang forward to retrieve her sword. Qymaen tracked her for a bit longer as she plunged back into the fight, head still scrambled with unsettled thoughts, but a perfect line of sight on another enemy encouraged him to take a shot. Soon, he fell back into his lethal rhythm.

This didn’t last long. A disorienting sensation of vast movement jolted his attention to the sky. To his shock, he saw one of the gunships slowly descending, angling away from Shrupak and to the west.

“What the...what is it doing?” he muttered.

—

On the bridge of the gunship, everyone was speaking at once.

“Commander! We’re trying to reach out to the shuttle that hailed us. We haven’t heard anything since the initial communication.”

“No visual on any Kaleesh on the ground in this area, sir!”

“That spacecraft could be compromised,” snarled the commander. “Target the ship. Continue to hail them. If they do not answer in the next thirty seconds, fire laser cannons on that shuttle.”

Not far below, inside the cockpit of the wholly compromised spacecraft in question, an agitated message repeated over the comm system, a babble of noise to Amagi, a bit more meaningful to Jindra.

Heart fluttering in anxiety, she turned to Amagi at the gunner station. “They’re suspicious. The longer we put off answering, the closer they get to opening fire. It’s now or never.”

“Right. They’re near enough, angle’s good.” Amagi hesitated, his claws nervously tapping the control stick in front of him. “So I—grab this—and then I…?”

“Just do it!”

The shuttle’s own laser cannons, much smaller than those of the gunship but more powerful than anything the Kaleesh had ever wielded, pivoted toward the gunship and fired repeatedly. Plasma bolts slammed into the gunship, and in the split-second that preceded impact, Jindra realized, to her shock, that the gunship had its shields lowered—a simple but costly oversight. A snarl of flame bloomed into a blinding explosion that spiraled from the epicenter outward like a miniature sun. Roiling fire spit in all directions and pieces of wreckage spun across the landscape. One large, jagged piece slammed into another grounded shuttle, which, unfortunately for the Huk inside, had been powered down, its own shields lowered. Amagi and Jindra’s shuttle rocked as it withstood a smaller bombardment of rubble, but, with a groan of protesting metal, it began to fall over to the tune of alarmed shouts from within the passenger cabin.

“Oh, gods,” Jindra gasped as she scrambled for a handhold. She stifled another cry when a pair of hands gripped her arms and yanked her toward the gunner station, pinning her between the chair and a wildly pulsing heart.

With a stomach-turning lurch and a _crunch_ , the shuttle toppled on its side. It lay propped up by one crumpled wing, the cockpit pitched dramatically toward the ground at a steep angle.

“All right?” Amagi asked breathlessly. He lowered Jindra back toward the pilot seat, only letting go once she seemed to have gotten a handhold.

She didn’t quite fall, but she slid and braced herself against the console, still gripping the other chair tightly. “Yes,” she said at length. “Thank you.”

He released a shaky laugh. “Don’t suppose you can fly this ship now?”

“P-pretty sure not.”

A piece of flaming debris cracked against the transparisteel bubble of the cockpit. “Right, then. We should get out of here.” Amagi twisted awkwardly around, seeking the hatch. “Hey! Why is this shut? Didn’t we leave it open?”

“Might have knocked something when we fell. Hold on.” Jindra’s hands flew over the controls. “The cockpit opens up, we can get out faster that way. Just need to find—ah!”

With a hiss and a stutter, the cockpit’s canopy levered open, not without some difficulty. The strange slant of the starship interfered with the mechanism and restricted the range of movement of the hinge, but it was still enough for both Amagi and Jindra to slip through the gap and tumble into the waiting grass. Once on their feet, they masked themselves and scrambled around the back of the shuttle, rejoining the other Ninshudari warriors, who were no worse for wear after the commotion. Together, they huddled under the shadow of the shuttle’s elevated wing.

“I can’t believe that worked,” said one of the warriors in awe.

“Well,” said Jindra, “I don’t think it will work twice.”

“They’ve got to be on the alert now,” agreed Amagi, glancing up and down the rows of shuttles. “We should probably make ourselves scarce. Any Huk inside those starships saw what happened. We need to be far away from here before they decide to get involved—especially if they turn their shuttle’s weapons against us. _Ya igni_ , but it’s a shame,” he went on with wincing regret. “I really wanted to take this thing apart! But we can’t linger, can we?”

“There will always be more shuttles, Ku’liana,” said a warrior, less an assurance than a grim reminder.

“Back to Shrupak?”

“For now. Let’s go!”

—

The fiery destruction of the gunship was met with an uproar from the city, the Huk chittering in alarm and confusion, the Kaleesh bursting with triumph. From where he stood on the pyramid, Qymaen could have sworn he heard Ronderu’s delighted laughter dancing down the city streets. He indulged his own quieter brand of elation, a warm purr of gratification that settled deep in his chest as he scoped in on the plunging, flaming remains of the ship. Such a sweet, satisfying sight. He refused to miss a moment of it.

“ _Burn_ , you filth,” he crooned under his breath.

So focused he was on enjoying the apparent success of the Ninshudari task force, he almost failed to detect the movement of the surviving gunship. It was the change in temperature that alerted him, a stark shift from the blazing midday sun to a slight shiver. Qymaen felt the air chill, and he lowered his scope to find himself submerged in shadow. Finally, he looked straight up. The other gunship had positioned itself over Shrupak Temple.

The Huk, it seemed, had had enough.

The very air around him thrummed, a deep sound that resonated in his chest and climbed the scale until it shrieked.

“ _Ya, íb-ku huul_ ,” he swore a split-second before the ship opened fire.

Laser cannons shredded the summit shrine of the great pyramid, raining fire and brick down on the complex below. Qymaen, thankfully one of few Kaleesh who had taken up position on one of the lower levels of the pyramid, ducked under the slight awning that was built into every platform of the structure. There, in the shadow of relative safety, he flattened his back to the wall and watched debris plummet past. Screams of horror rose from the base of the temple, lifting in lament of desecrated tombs and shrines.

He continued to swear, at length and to no one but himself. He was pinned down, centimeters from the runoff of tumbling stone, embers and ash. The nearest entryway to the interior shrines was impossible to reach without first stepping out into the hail of destruction. Having seen how easily the gunship had reduced the outer wall to rubble, he knew it wouldn’t take long for them to work their way down through each level of the pyramid—until the plasma barrage reached _his_ level. A cloud of dust billowed from the shattered upper tier and spilled into his midst, worse than any sandstorm he’d endured in the neighboring desert by Irikuum. It slipped through his mask and set him coughing. Eyes watering, he shielded himself with his clan cloak and huddled against the safety of the wall.

He needed help. They _all_ did, or Shrupak was doomed.

Not far from the city gates, a slew of Huk finally chased down and cornered a small band of horde-members who had been leading them in circles for the better part of the fight. Blaster fire and slicing scythe-arms struck down the warriors in a matter of seconds, almost concurrent with the gunship’s attack on the temple. The Huk stood over their fallen enemies, looked across the city to the exploding pyramid, and lifted their weapons in a cheer of vengeance.

A small object clunked at their feet. One of the Huk soldiers stared at it and blinked in slow, dawning comprehension. Far too slow.

The object detonated, an eruption of smoke and spinning Huk limbs. 

Through the residual cloud, a mounted force of warriors astride kuunsi barreled down the main street of Shrupak. At the head of the group, Zaebar rode one-handed, his other arm occupied with supporting a heavy, under-barrel grenade launcher. Behind him were not only his own men, but a contingent of at least thirty more warriors—wearing the colors of the village of Adamen—escorting a large, kuunsi-drawn wagon that jounced dangerously along behind them. The wagon brimmed with crates that were stamped with the strange alien glyphs that few Kaleesh understood—and these glyphs, arranged alongside a stylized sigil that was both round and sharp all at once, marked these crates as full of Czerka weaponry.

Zaebar drew his kuunsi to a skidding stop, barking orders at a nearby Adamen warrior, who himself toted a weapon case of similar size and weight to Zaebar’s grenade launcher. “We need to get that thing to the temple; we don’t know the range of it, so we should get as close as we can to that starship! This way! We only need a few men—the rest of you, find a place to take cover and start distributing weapons!” The pair of them split from the main force, trailed by a few other warriors, making for the great pyramid.

At the base of the temple, the warriors who had not been killed or injured by falling debris attempted to distance themselves from the pyramid. Pilgrims, too, began panicking and abandoning their hiding places in the chambers nearest to the temple, fearing that they would also be demolished in the attack. Instead, they found a swarm of Huk moving in on them from all directions, determined to block their escape. 

Ronderu was one of very few who wasn’t actively trying to flee, only engaging with the enemy to help clear a path for others, but always tarrying, shooting wild looks up at the gunship’s assault on the pyramid. There was a momentary lull in the attack, a small blessing, an opportunity for Sheelal to make his way down from his precarious position. _If he hasn’t already been killed_ , she thought abruptly, a thought that plunged and hollowed a sour hole in the pit of her stomach.

But no. He was alive. Impossible knowledge, perhaps, but true regardless. She just _knew_.

And if he didn’t emerge from that cloud of dust soon, she was going to climb the pyramid steps herself and drag him down with her.

Ronderu’s Lig swords flashed as she parried a bladed arm and sliced through the thorax of her current opponent, then swung in a surprised arc when a voice from behind her shouted, “Kummar!” She spotted a small formation of kuunsi round a street corner and emerge into the plaza, closing the distance.

“Statziga,” she acknowledged breathlessly as Zaebar halted before her. “Nice slugthrower.”

“Where’s Qymaen?” he demanded.

She pointed one Lig sword at the pyramid above. “Last I saw him, somewhere up there.”

“Of course he is.” Zaebar gestured to the warrior on his left, the one who carried the large weapon case. “Qymaen’s the best shot of all of us. Kummar, can you take him this weapon? The people of Adamen say it is the most powerful weapon they have from the offworlders.”

This was the most beautiful thing Ronderu had heard all day. Her mask shifted over her wide grin. “I’m on it.”

Qymaen, meanwhile, was already halfway down the stairs to the next platform. He thanked the ancestors for his predilection to wrap his feet below-heel as he slipped on loose pebbles and ashes yet managed to keep his footing. A low frequency rumbled, hastening his dash to the lower platform. The hum shifted in pitch, so sharp he reflexively pinned back his ears beneath his duhlhava, and he scrambled off of the last step and onto the lowest tier of the pyramid just as sound exploded into palpable energy. He again ducked under the awning and planted his back against the shuddering stone walls, praying this new blast wouldn’t be enough to collapse the temple around him.

Another wave of dust cascaded down from the upper levels, and this time he inhaled a spluttering lungful. Gagging and wheezing, he yanked off his mask, doubled over and spat on the stone at his feet. He clamped his cape over his mouth. Blinked away tears. Squinted through the haze.

“Ronderu?!”

And there she was, stumbling up over the edge of his platform, holding a long, metal box over her head, likely to shield herself from what fell from above. “Zaebar brought a present for you,” she gasped out. She heaved the box at Qymaen’s feet and braced her hands on her thighs, catching her breath. “Figured—you’d be our best shot at hitting—that stupid ship.”

“Get under the awning,” he said tersely as he dropped to his knees and tugged the weapon case close. A quick examination of the lid yielded the peculiar glyphs of the offworlders, meaningless to him except to confirm beyond doubt that this was indeed some sort of imported weapon. He unclasped the lid and opened the case to stare down at one of the strangest slugthrowers he’d ever seen—a massively thick tube so unlike his sleek Outland, and, tucked alongside its length, two projectiles. _Not a slugthrower_ , he realized, _a sluglauncher_. He’d never used one himself, but he understood the principle. That, as well as his well-honed intuition, was enough to guide his hands as he removed the launcher from its case and sorted out how to load one of the projectiles.

Had he knowledge of Aurebesh or Basic, he would have read on the lid that this was a _Czerka Arms LRRL-75 Rocket Launcher_. 

“Those are some big slugs,” remarked Ronderu, hovering over him while he swiftly worked.

“Not normal slugs. These explode. This is a sluglauncher, I think, like the ones that use grenades. Similar, anyway. Gods, I hope the range is better.” First fastening his kakmusme on his face, he pushed himself to his feet and propped the sluglauncher on his shoulder. He grunted under its weight. “Well. Pray this works.”

“This had better not blow us up.”

“Might want to take a step back, just in case.”

He didn’t need to tell her twice. Ronderu moved away several paces, taking care to remain under the protective awning, and watched as Qymaen stepped out of cover and aimed the sluglauncher up into the sky, at the aft portion of the gunship positioned overhead. He took a deep, steeling breath, released it, and fired.

Ronderu didn’t even see the projectile burst forth from the front of the weapon. Her hand flew up in self-preservation as, with a flash and a _boom_ , a blast of superheated gas and flame exploded from the back end of the launcher against the wall of the pyramid a few meters behind Qymaen. The backblast recoiled and slammed into him, knocking him off his feet—she let out a shout and sprang forward—but, as fortune would have it, he didn’t fly off the edge of the temple. Instead, he hit the stone platform hard, bonemask taking the brunt of the landing, his clan cloak trailing after him in a scorched ruin. For a reeling, disorienting moment, Ronderu fancied a pulse of pain shot through _her_ skull. But it was gone as soon as she acknowledged it, a phantom sensation she shook off with a shiver. Cursing, she dropped beside Qymaen, ripped off the worst of his cape and flung it aside to smolder safely away from the rest of his clothing and flesh.

What Ronderu didn’t see was the trajectory of the missile. But many Kaleesh who were present at Shrupak that day would claim they saw precisely what happened.

They saw a line of smoke streak from the pyramid up toward the gunship. They saw it strike with supernatural precision at one of the engines. They saw—but did not understand—the pulse of disruption where the missile punched through the ship’s active deflector shields—ray shields, rather than the particle shields that would have repelled a projectile. They saw the engine ignite, and they saw it explode.

Screams of jubilation rose from the streets of Shrupak as the gunship lurched in the sky and began to lose altitude, plunging toward the shoreline. The ground trembled as the ship hit the beach and sent up a billowing inferno that could be seen from every corner of the city.

The Huk began to fall back.

Emboldened warriors gave chase, firing slugthrowers and hurling shoni spears after the retreating enemy. The Huk, though they still outnumbered the Kaleesh by a considerable margin, had no intention of sticking around after losing _two K’tahak-class gunships_. They swarmed out through the western gates and fled to their waiting shuttles, a scene they found to be in a state of utter disarray, the grassy field burning and littered with the wreckage of the first gunship. One by one, the shuttles lifted into the sky and climbed higher and higher until they were no more than tiny insect specks blurring into the atmosphere. A single shuttle pause and levied blaster fire against the shuttle that Jindra, Amagi and the Ninshudari warriors had captured and been forced to abandon on its side, destroying any chance that the Kaleesh might salvage it for parts or attempt to use it in the future.

But no one cared. They simply waited for that final shuttle to buzz into the distant sky and out of sight, then continued reveling in their victory—shouting, saluting, singing, dancing.

On the lower level of the great pyramid, Ronderu turned Qymaen over, grabbed him by his singed spaulders and shook him. “Sheelal! Hey! You okay?” she demanded, but it didn’t take long to see from his limp neck and failure to respond that he had managed to knock himself unconscious. “ _Stupid_ ,” she muttered, wasting no time draping his deadweight over her shoulder. Ignoring the dropped sluglauncher, she began to descend the temple steps, privately thanking whatever ancestors might be listening for merciful favors: despite his recent efforts to exercise and build mass, Qymaen was easy to carry.

The celebration clamored around Ronderu as she reached the street level, ducking past dancing limbs and stepping around broken corpses to find a building away from the jostling crowd of warriors and pilgrims alike. She dropped Qymaen on the ground and propped him against a wall, panting and pausing to regain her breath. There, she crouched next to him, removing first her own kakmusme and then his, setting them on the cobblestones. His tusks drooped to his chest, blood trickling from an already-discolored lump on his head where his bonemask hadn’t quite been able to absorb the impact of his violent collapse.

Ronderu gripped his upper arm, applying a more urgent, vigorous shake. “Hey, Sheelal. Come on. Wake up.” When he didn’t react, she hesitated, sharp teeth chewing at her bottom lip. Then, jaw clenching, she moved her hand to the side of his face, cupping his cheek with a gentleness that surprised even her. She held it there for a moment, then leaned in and whispered, earnestly, “ _Qymaen_.”

At last, his head bobbed and his eyes peeled open. 

Ronderu sighed in relief, but her hand snapped back to his shoulder, as if she’d been caught doing something wrong. “You okay, Sheelal?” she asked.

“Ow,” was the woozy reply. He lifted a hand and brushed his temple, then blearily examined his bloody fingertips. “W-what happened?”

A grin split Ronderu’s face. “You _did it_. You brought down the other gunship. The temple is damaged, but it’s still standing—and the Huk have fled Shrupak! We _won!_ ”

Qymaen blinked glassy eyes, head listing to the side as he processed Ronderu’s words. His own speech was halting, slurred and steeped in confusion. “Sorry, I think...I’m...hit my head…?”

“Thank the ancestors for bonemasks,” Ronderu quipped, but still she cringed as she patted his arm. “We’ll want to have a kojmeda take a look at that bump, though.”

More slow blinking. “Did...did we _win?_ ”

“Hrm. Let’s find you a kojmeda sooner rather than later.”

“Kummar! Qy!” A shout whirled Ronderu around, and she spotted Zaebar pushing through a mob of warriors clapping each other on the backs and congratulating each other. His maskless face was quite joyful, especially for him. “Ancestors above, what a shot!” As he drew close enough to see what was happening, however, his expression faltered. “Is he all right?”

“Oh, he’ll be fine. Tougher than he looks, but I’m sure you know that. Come on, Sheelal,” she added, turning to him. “Time to get your due.” She pulled Qymaen to his feet, and was quickly joined by Zaebar to support him when it became obvious that standing upright was beyond his dubious equilibrium. Together they shuffled away from the wall and into the midst of revelry. Ronderu waved one hand high and threw back her head in a jubilant howl, drawing attention from everyone close enough to see and hear. “To the victor goes eternal glory and honor!” she shouted. “Glory and honor to Qymaen jai Sheelal!”

This triggered a chant that swept through the entire Shrupak Temple complex: a chorus of “Sheelal! Sheelal!” that resonated across the bay, echoed off the towering cliff walls, lifted to the top of the desecrated but enduring pyramid, as if it were not a few hundred or so voices, but _thousands_.

Qymaen, dizzy, concussed, borne up in the arms of his closest friends and comrades, surrounded by a roar of exaltation, smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, the Battle of Shrupak was a doozy! Everyone could use a rest after that, eh? Maybe...two weeks?
> 
> But yeah, seriously, next Friday is moving day and I can't see myself having the time or energy to post. I'll aim to have the next chapter up in two weeks. :)


	7. Chapter 7

Five Days Later

  
  


Sobering peace descended over Shrupak Temple after the heady victory of Qymaen jai Sheelal and his horde, though the repercussions of the battle were still fresh as an open wound. 

A mass burial and a special ceremony of passing led by Malga Bolek released the spirits of the warriors who had lost their lives, a bittersweet occasion for those who mourned them. There was little greater honor than to be laid to rest in the hallowed soil of the city they’d so bravely fought to protect, after all. The Huk bodies left behind—not an insignificant number—were looted for weapons and harvested for their armor-like chitin, and the remains burned. There were no souls among the Huk to pass into the beyond, no ancestors waiting to receive them and consider them for godhood. Only black smoke and crumbling ash.

The great pyramid sat scarred in the center of the complex, its upper levels shattered and reduced to rubble and dust that caked the streets. However, the Kaleesh were not to be deterred: already stonehewers had flocked to the nearby quarries to cut large blocks of shellstone to be rolled back to the city by tamed mumuu, while laborers swarmed over the pyramid to painstakingly clear the ruined levels of dangerous debris. Despite their swift response, rebuilding the damaged temple would surely take years without an improvement of technology, an irony that was not lost on many of the Kaleesh laborers as they found themselves wishing they had a starship of their own to tote the massive stone bricks to the top of the pyramid. But, they would rebuild, and send tribute to the families whose tombs and shrines had been reduced to ruin.

On two opposite ends of the city outskirts, many Kaleesh still picked over the gutted remains of the destroyed gunships, hollowing the still-smoldering metal carcasses for whatever could be salvaged. Though little technology or weaponry survived, what they found was submitted for appraisal by the likes of such experts as Jindra nal Kuuzu and Amagi din Ku’liana. The most valuable discovery was that a fair amount of valuable duranium and impervium sheets could be stripped away and taken to blacksmiths to be slowly melted down and repurposed for various uses, such as improved tools, the shafts for shoni spears and for more valuable Lig swords than those forged from the traditional kuluha they mined on Kalee. Not a few Kaleesh in Shrupak considered the possibility of mercantile leverage in the western continent; even Urukushnigal would want such rare alloys.

There were other matters to settle, however, and Qymaen was in the midst of discussing one of them with several representatives from the various villages who peopled his horde. A weary haze hung heavy in his mind, having only slightly abated in the days following his injuries at the wall and on the great pyramid. It took every ounce of energy he possessed to remain attentive and diplomatic as warriors and chieftains all around the central hearth bickered in a cloud of hostile pheromones over the weapons cache of Adamen. In the end, he judiciously led the representatives in a compromise, convincing the leading warrior of Adamen to mete out the supply of precious weapons in a way that left everyone satisfied.

When the meeting ended and Qymaen made the rounds with parting salutes, he spotted Ronderu in the doorway to the building, her hand lifted in an inquisitive wave. He nodded her over, and, while the rest of the warriors filtered outside, stepped aside to greet her.

“What was this one about, again?” she asked glibly, tipping her head after the dispersing throng of men. “Splitting the spoils of Adamen?”

Qymaen sighed and rubbed at the twinge in his temple, but managed to resist squirming his claws underneath his duhlhava to pick at the itchy poultice that lay there. “Yes. Adamen will retain the bulk of their cache, followed by Shrupak and Irikuum. The rest will be split evenly among the other villages in my horde.”

Ronderu shrugged. “Makes sense. Hope you’re at least keeping that sluglauncher.” She reached out and gave him a hearty pat on his back. “Speaking of which, feeling better?”

He winced away from her touch with a pointed, wounded glare. “ _Ow_.”

“Oh, you baby,” she laughed. “Rub some more zigmash on it.”

“It’s fine when you don’t _smack_ it. Just don’t do that to my head, all right? It still hurts, too. _Gods_ , but I’m ready to be rid of this cursed fog; it’s so hard to focus.”

“Mm, still skull-shocked?”

“I barely remember what happened on the pyramid that day,” he griped. “It’s ridiculous. You’d think something that important would stick.”

“Well, lucky I was there to see the whole thing, huh?” She neglected to point out the fact that she was too busy making sure he hadn’t inadvertently killed himself to bear witness to the shot that ended the battle. She’d heard plenty about it, afterwards, enough that an envious little corner of her mind wished she’d watched the gunship’s destruction. But then she remembered the blast of fumes and fire, the crack of Qymaen’s kakmusme striking stone, his sizzling cloak and leathers.

There were more important things.

As if he’d read her mind, a faint smile appeared on Qymaen’s face. “Yes. I was lucky you were there, Ronderu.” He barely gave her a moment to absorb his words before he moved on, expression growing serious. “Have you spoken with Jindra lately, by any chance?”

Ronderu’s expression pinched into a grimace. “Sorry. She sounded pretty sure about it. Can’t blame her; it was her home before she was taken.”

An exasperated growl. “The chieftain of Urukishnugal doesn’t _deserve_ her back in his city.”

“No one ‘deserves’ her,” said Ronderu, lifting an eyebrow. “She can do what she wants.”

Qymaen backpedaled in an instant, but agitation continued to clog his throat. “Well, yes, of course. It’s just—it would be a waste for her to vanish into the crowds of Urukishnugal. You heard Amagi—she was right there with him and his warriors—and she says she knows how to fly Huk ships. All she needs is combat training and she would be an invaluable asset. If she would only come to Irikuum, then I could personally see to it that—”

“Hey.” Ronderu put up her hands in surrender. “It’s not _me_ you need to convince. Anyway,” she teased, “if you really want her to stick around, why not ask her to wed you?”

Qymaen thought for a moment he’d misheard or misinterpreted, an annoying recurrence that plagued him since he’d twice hit his head on the day of the battle. Ronderu’s sly smirk suggested otherwise. He blenched, belatedly and utterly mortified. “That’s not—I’m not interested in _that_ ,” he croaked.

“With her, or with anyone?” chuckled Ronderu, giving him a light punch in the shoulder. “With your popularity, you could have _quite_ the harem.”

By all the ancestors, why was she even talking about this? Flustered, Qymaen sought to change the subject. “I—I was hoping Amagi might come back with us to Irikuum, as well. His would be a good mind to have around, and he has an impressive set of skills.”

“Ooh, Amagi, huh? Something you want to tell me, Sheelal?”

Qymaen turned away. “I think that’s enough of this conversation.”

“Oh, lighten up!” she burst out. “I’m joking. I understand. Surround yourself with useful people—it makes sense.” She put a hand to her chest and mocked, “Though I wonder, am I not enough for you anymore?”

Qymaen wheeled around, at once deadly serious and incredibly heartfelt. “ _No one_ is your match, Ronderu. You are irreplaceable.”

She blinked, opened her mouth, and closed it.

Realizing he’d actually rendered her speechless— _Ronderu, at a loss for words_ —Qymaen searched for something to say to fill the baffling silence and found little that didn’t threaten to embarrass him. Or—no, it wasn’t strictly embarrassment that flooded his stomach with fluttering tumu wings.

No. It was something far more precarious. More confusing. Something he didn’t dare touch.

She was still staring at him as he began to walk away again, angling for the doorway, pulse racing in his ears. “I...I’m going to try talking to both of them again,” he mumbled. “I’ll see you for the evening blessing.”

Ronderu lashed out and caught his arm. “Hey. Wait.” When he reluctantly turned to face her, he was taken aback to see her expression was even more uncertain than before. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something.” _Those_ words did nothing for Qymaen’s harried nerves, but she continued, “During the battle, I thought...I thought I saw something. I’m not sure how to describe it, because...well, it didn’t make any sense. It was impossible.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked, secretly grateful for the shift in subject. “All of your stories are impossible.”

“Very funny. I’m serious. It was probably just the stress of the fight. But it was strange.” She seemed to struggle with her words—or rather, she struggled with the implications of what she was trying to describe. “It was almost like I saw... _me_...through _your_ eyes. Not even sure how I knew it was you. But _you_ saw that someone was about to attack me, so I turned around and killed them first.” With a short, self-deprecating laugh, she finally released his arm and took a step back. “So...it sounds stupid, right? Like I said, stress.”

“No,” Qymaen interjected, startling himself with his urgency. Ronderu also flinched. “Not stupid at all. I remember that; I felt something when it happened. And earlier, I saw the same thing, when I was blown off the outer wall and buried under the rubble. You were running through the streets, looking for me, but...I was _there_ , seeing what _you_ saw. It...it almost felt like...I was guiding you. To find me.”

They both stood in silence, staring at one another.

Ronderu cracked a harried smile. “Maybe we’re both crazy?”

“Maybe we should talk to Malga Bolek.”

—

They soon sat in Malga Bolek’s quarters, huddled around the warming hearth fire, cross-legged on their cushions and drinking tea. Or, in the case of Qymaen and Ronderu, they nursed their untouched mugs and took turns explaining to the High Malga what had happened.

“Seeing through each other’s eyes?” the Malga repeated thoughtfully. “No, I’m not sure I have ever heard of anything like that. It has happened more than once?”

“I guess so,” said Ronderu, glancing at Qymaen.

“Yes. Twice during the battle. I felt something both times. It’s hard to describe. Like...like a dream, I suppose.”

Malga Bolek peered intently at Qymaen, taking a pensive sip of his tea. “You are called the Sheelal. May I be so bold as to ask you how you earned your name? Is it a literal meaning?”

Qymaen started as if he’d been shouted at, and immediately ducked his head to stare down the eddying herbs in his tea as if they held deeper fascination than the conversation at hand. “Ah,” was all he managed to say before he could compose a more appropriate response.

Ronderu pursed her lips and twisted them askew, watching Qymaen’s reaction. She remembered what he had told her when they first met, of course—a preposterous tale by all accounts, and something she had initially gone along with in good humor, but that which became slowly, gradually more credible the better she grew to know Sheelal and his nature. He wasn’t one to tell wild stories, not like herself. He was also not above teasing, but when he’d spoken of his dream...there had been no tells, no faint smiles or sparkling eyes. Only earnest sincerity and—thinking back—something else. Remorse? Resentment?

He’d never talked about his dream again, after that day in the Kunbal jungle.

“Chieftain Sheelal?” Malga Bolek prompted gently, when still the response didn’t come.

Qymaen didn’t look up, but his fingers tensed around his mug. “Yes. I have dreams,” he said at length. “Not normal dreams. Not often. But...when I do, it’s as if the dreams are telling me what is about to happen. I dreamt about the Huk before they invaded Kalee. I dreamt I wore my father’s kakmusme hours before his death. I…” He lifted his gaze, meeting Ronderu’s puzzled eyes. “...I dreamt Ronderu was calling to me from half a continent away, so I went and found her.”

“You never told me about those other dreams, Sheelal,” said Ronderu with a curious frown.

Qymaen’s shoulders twitched, barely a shrug.

“I have heard stories of dreamers,” said the High Malga. “I’d never met one myself until now. Have you received other blessings from the ancestors, Chieftain Sheelal?”

“Other blessings?”

“The ancestors may commune with those they’ve blessed in many ways, it is said. Dreams are more common. Sometimes they whisper words of wisdom. Rarely they gift strength and speed. And there are legends that say the very air around a blessed warrior moves where the ancestors will it, throwing enemies with a gust of wind, pulling weapons to his hands.”

Qymaen shook his head, hunching over his cooling drink. “I only have dreams. And as I said, not many.”

“Perhaps not many, but of great significance,” countered the Malga. “Also, I must ask: do you dream, as well, Ronderu lij Kummar?”

She jerked her attention from Qymaen. “Me? _Lug huul_ , no. I mean, I have normal dreams. No ‘blessings’. Nothing special.”

“And yet you have had shared visions. Shared your very sight with one another.” Malga Bolek ran a thumb over one of his tusks as he gazed into the hearth’s flickering flames, eyes glazing over. “‘The Dreamer dreams to stay asleep and eternal bond with Dreamt One keep’.”

“What?”

“Ah, hmm. An old parable. A myth. It is not told by many nowadays. ‘ _The Dreamer and The Dreamt_ ’, they call it. Have you heard of it?”

Qymaen and Ronderu glanced at each other.

“No.”

“Can’t say I have.”

“Hmm. I would recite it for you, if I remembered all of it. I can try to summarize what I was told.” The old Malga closed his eyes, drawing on memories of tales spun by his own elders. “The story is about an individual called The Dreamer—often described as a Kaleesh who was blessed by the ancestors and granted the power to shape the world through his dreams. The ancestors promised him godhood as long as he did not abuse his abilities. However, after a time, he grew lonely, so one night he dreamed of a companion who became as true as any of his dreams: the Dreamt One. The Dreamer and the Dreamt were two halves of one bound soul—twin souls, like the sun and the moon—and they forged their own path together, ignoring the ancestors’ guidance. But dreams do not last forever, and the ancestors, disappointed with his actions, woke the Dreamer from his blessed sleep. When he awoke, The Dreamt One was gone, leaving the Dreamer alone and powerless, a broken soul.”

Silence followed his story, underscored by the soft pop of embers as the burning hearth wood sparked and spat.

“That...that’s a sad story,” Qymaen said, far more troubled than he cared to admit.

“Right. It’s a story.” Ronderu’s eyebrows crooked in skepticism. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

Malga Bolek shook his head. “There are many different ways one can tell the story, so it can mean many different things. I’ve shared with you the version I was told. In another telling, the gods cast the Dreamer, a god himself, out of their realm as punishment, and after defying them over and over instead of atoning, his soul is not permitted to pass on and return to them. On the other hand, a different telling suggests the Dreamer is not at fault at all, and the story ends when he convinces the ancestors to take pity on him and restore the Dreamt One to the world of the living.” He sighed and resettled his weight. “Ah, but I apologize for the ramblings of an old man. It’s only that your name made me think of it—Sheelal.”

Another pause stretched silence to the brink of discomfort.

This time, Ronderu broke it, her tone brisk. “Well, I guess thank you for sharing that depressing story, Malga Bolek. Even if it _had_ anything to do with us, it doesn’t explain how we can see through each other’s eyes.”

“Unless we share a soul,” Qymaen mumbled.

Ronderu’s head snapped to the side, bringing the full intensity of her golden glare to bear on Qymaen. “I don’t know about you, but I am my _own person_ , with my _own soul_ . Nobody, not even _you_ , makes me who I am.”

Qymaen stopped wincing at her ferocity and blinked. _Not even you?_

“You’re right, of course. It’s only a story. Perhaps the ancestors have blessed the two of you with a shared destiny,” suggested the Malga, trying to restore the calm. “They would seem to have brought you together for a reason.”

“Makes as much sense as anything,” declared Ronderu, but Qymaen spotted the slight roll of her eyes. “We’re probably the two greatest warriors in the world. So why not?”

Qymaen, seeing how edgy Ronderu still was, decided not to press the matter. “Why not…”

“If you would accept my advice: I do not suggest trying to force the phenomenon to happen again. Simply wait for it to transpire, and when it does, open yourselves to it. If the ancestors are trying to communicate through you, and share their blessings with you, accept it. There is no greater honor in the living world. With the favor of the ancestors, it is likely for you to earn godhood after your passing.” He turned to Qymaen, who stiffened. “And you, young chieftain: if you have more of your dreams, heed the message of the ancestors wisely. They are trying to speak to you, and if you listen, they may do wondrous things through you.”

Ronderu moved abruptly, draining her tea, clunking it aside and rising to her feet. “Thanks for the tea, Malga Bolek.”

Though Qymaen hurried to follow her lead, she was already on her way out the door by the time he stood and paused to bow to the High Malga. He shot an apologetic glance after her retreating cloak. “Thank you sincerely, Malga Bolek. We’ll...we’ll see you at the evening blessing.”

“Ancestors’ blessings, Chieftain Sheelal.”

Outside of the Malga’s quarters, Qymaen found Ronderu strolling away at a surprising pace, headed for the cliff-hewn stairs that led to the city below. He had to jog to catch up. “Ronderu, wait!”

She stopped and turned, expression unfazed. “Hm?”

He’d expected a bit more; now he felt foolish for calling after her as frantically as he had. “You, um. You seemed upset in there.”

A short, sardonic laugh betrayed her before she even started speaking. “I wouldn’t say _upset_. It’s all a bit stupid, though, isn’t it? Thinking our ancestors just—reach into our lives and mess around with us. And for what? That’s supposed to be a blessing? I mean,” she went on, forcing out another laugh in lieu of growing outwardly angry, but failing to stifle her growing agitation, “I joke around, I call myself a demigod. Might as well, right? Because I’m a good enough warrior to call myself whatever I want. I don’t need a clan to define me, or a village, and definitely not a bunch of dead ancestors who never actually talk to anyone. And you know what? The ancestors don’t care if I call myself something I’m not, even if people say it’s blasphemy—because the ancestors aren’t _paying attention_ —they don’t _care_ . Who's to say, anyway? The Malga? Do they actually hear the ancestors talking to them? Do _you_ , Sheelal? If they don’t talk to you, with your _blessed dreams_ , then who else?”

Qymaen listened quietly to her rant, folding his arms over his chest and unconsciously flexing his claws under his ribs, hugging himself. He’d always assumed Ronderu had nontraditional beliefs; that didn’t come as a surprise. What fueled his discomfort was how her tirade—alongside the Malaga’s unsettling story—demanded reflection of his own beliefs. Her fervor pulled the words from his throat before he could fully process them, and he blurted, “Irikuum’s Malga—Malga Shapra—he’s been trying to tell me my dreams are a blessing from the ancestors all my life. And now here’s Malga Bolek, telling me the same thing. I...I don’t know anything about the ancestors. What I do know is...I would never call my dreams blessings. I’ve dreamed such terrible things, and there was nothing I could do to change what happened. If the ancestors were favoring me or trying to do great deeds through me, you'd think they’d give me a chance to set things right or...or do _more_ , at least. But the Huk still invaded; my father still died.”

“And you still met me,” Ronderu said sarcastically.

He snapped back at her like a ricochet—not angry, per se, but suddenly, he couldn’t stand her attitude, that mask of levity that so poorly hid her deep-seated insecurities about _belonging_ —the way she always deliberately distanced herself—as if he didn’t _know_. His words brimmed with furious sincerity, daring her to counter him: “You are the _one_ good thing to come out of my dreams, Ronderu.”

The mask dropped, and for a beautiful moment Qymaen could see raw, ragged gratitude. But a blink later and the mask was back—mostly. He still saw the glint of hope in her eyes, even as she wryly said, “Better than the Huk invasion or the death of your father, anyway.”

He wanted to shout at her for doing it _again_. He wanted to grab her and— _shake her_ , a voice in the back of his head finished for him when his thoughts slammed up against a stone wall and refused to budge for several confused seconds. But anger was fatiguing in his skull-shocked state, and he was already exhausted from more than half a day of dealing with the fallout of the Battle of Shrupak. He settled for simply gazing at her in disappointment.

She sighed. “Look, let’s say you do have some sort of power. I’ve heard the same stories as Malga Bolek—not the stupid sad one, but rumors and legends of Kaleesh with ‘blessings’. Never really believed them, of course. But maybe you got in my head with your power, and because of that we could...you know. Do what we did the other day.”

“Well, I do like that theory better than the one where I dreamt you into existence,” he said bleakly.

She waved a sharp, dismissive hand in the air as if wafting away an extremely unpleasant smell. “Oh, please. Are you serious? That was a _myth_ . Shaping the world with dreams? Are you saying you think you did that? That _you_ brought the Huk to Kalee, that _you_ killed your father?”

His stomach churned at the consideration. “ _No_. But...but there has to be a purpose, right? If I’m having these dreams, there has to be more I’m supposed to _do_ with them.”

Ronderu laughed again, a bark of incredulity. “Supposed to? You don’t _need_ to ‘supposed to’. No one tells you what to do but yourself. No ancestors. No masters. No destiny.”

“And what about us?” The question burbled up and gushed forth like blood from a wound, prompting Qymaen to bite his tongue before he could follow it up with more foolishness. The tumu wings were back, needlessly distracting.

Ronderu strode forward and grabbed his shoulders, an alarming development that set his heart hammering, but she remained at arm’s-length and merely smirked. “You want to know if there was a _purpose_ to us meeting? The purpose is what we make it. You and me—we can do whatever we want with…” She gestured to his head, and then to herself. “Whatever this is. And y’know what I think? I think it makes us _fight_ better. If we work together like we did today, the two of us, maybe we could actually drive these filthy bugs off our world. Sounds like a good purpose to me.”

Qymaen’s mind scrambled to keep up, sifting through far too many thoughts to sort the relevant from irrelevant, trying to focus on what she was suggesting, rather than stressing over the strength of his kuu-lir and whether she would notice. He found himself plunging back into a memory, abruptly, vividly, but not for the first time in the past few days, of being back in Irikuum. Back on the eve of Sudab’a Ud-Imin. Back at the bonfire, dancing like he’d never danced before.

The dancing, the fighting, it was all the same: it was _better_ at her side.

Nothing—the ancestors, his dreams, the Huk—could deny him that.

She grinned at him expectantly, and still his nerves tingled with fraught energy and existential anxieties. So he did what he’d been trained to do when he needed to settle his spirit—he breathed. The world tilted into place, even if it smeared a bit around the edges, and her hands helped anchor him in the moment. “The two of us,” he finally echoed, his faint smile a poor reflection of hers, but present nevertheless. “Just the two of us, driving the Huk off Kalee? That’s a little ambitious, don’t you think?”

“Like a dream?” she goaded.

“Oh, if only the ancestors would send me a dream like that,” groaned Qymaen. “I’d attend every morning and evening blessing for the rest of my life.”

“Well,” said Ronderu, “I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for them. So forget about dreams, Sheelal.” Her grip squeezed, her grin spread in a feral display of her sharp, wicked teeth, and her eyes glittered with the promise of righteous violence. “Let’s make it our reality.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find more content (i.e. story art) over on my [Tumblr](https://inonibird.tumblr.com/).


End file.
